


Lemonade Stroke

by leavingonatrain



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 19x19, Alternate Universe - College/University, Explicit Sexual Content, Graphic Description of Being a Broke Uni Student, Hustling, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Pool & Billiards
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-01
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-02-22 11:23:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 53,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13165893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leavingonatrain/pseuds/leavingonatrain
Summary: “You know there are pubs that don’t give a shit if you’re betting as long as you’re a paying customer, but you’re not gonna find them in bloodyPiccadilly Gardens, are you?”“Harry, look at us,” Louis laughs, “Reallylook at us. How long do you think we’d last hustling in some shoddy pub in Hulme, or wherever the fuck?”“You’d be surprised.”(In which Louis is too good a pool player for his own good, and Harry just wants to be helpful)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Our new session of Feels and Fucking is sponsored by all the new pics of Solo Louis posing with cue sticks and bending over pool tables. I just… I had to.
> 
> Before starting, be mindful that the story will contain mentions of: violence, homophobic language, hustling, recreational drug use and a horny teenager trying and failing to seduce his (adult) teacher. All other, if any, additional trigger warnings will be added to the start of each chapter.

It’s the fifteenth of January and already Louis has had it up to  _here_  with this year, he thinks as he hauls his gigantic footie duffel bag, one last flight of stairs standing between him and his bed. It’s not full of his kit but of food smuggled from home, packed heavy back when Louis was banking on his mum driving him back to uni – as in, right up to the halls car park and not Doncaster train station and  _bye, love, see you at Easter_. 

He sighs, “Finally,” followed by a cursory, “ _Fuck_ ,” just so there’s no confusion on how he’s feeling. His shoulders are fucking killing him, the strap on his Adidas bag cutting deep under the weight of the five million cans of Heinz baked beans he’s nipped from his mother’s cupboard because he cannot bear  _another fucking day_  of eating that Everyday Value cardboard-tasting _crap_ from Tesco that he bought in bulk at the start of term because it was, like, twenty pence each but – no more. He’s learned to steer clear of Tesco if he wants to get his value for money and he’s got himself enough cans to last  _weeks_ , he’s living the high life now. 

He reaches the door to his flat, fishing his key out of his coat pocket with fingers that’d frozen halfway between Manchester Piccadilly and Fallowfield, and is immediately hit with a mass of hot air so stale that it kind of makes him want to vomit, which means Liam’s probably turned the dial on the radiator by the door as far as it would go before leaving for hols. 

The eerie silence means he’s probably the first one back, even though he knows Niall’s flight touched down this morning, because he was the one who braved the Ryanair website and booked it for him – unless the kid went and overslept, which, Louis admits, is not all that unlikely. He stops by the entrance to his door, room _three-one-three_ , knocks on Liam and Niall’s door just to make sure. The only other door on the lower half of the flat had been occupied by Ilya, who had flown home in December since he didn’t have any more exams in January, like Louis himself, and cut his exchange semester short. Louis likes to think they were good flatmates to poor Ilya, or at least as good as any of the other freshers in Oak House would’ve been, but he had a feeling the Erasmus student was definitely expecting something quieter and more conducive to studying, in which case he would’ve been better off not living in halls at all.

He opens the door to his lovely prison cell of a room, running his fingers through the painted over brick walls by the window like one would caress their newborn child. Being home had been lovely, of course, but he was eager to get back to Manchester, to this little life he’s carved for himself here. It’s been four months and Louis still feels like he should not sleep, he should not even blink lest he misses out on even a second of his uni experience. Once he gets out –  _it’s downhill from there_ , he’s been told, and he believes it. These are supposed to be the best years of his life, and so far uni hasn’t disappointed. 

He makes an effort to stack his supply of baked beans under his desk, up against the wall. Usually they’d sit on a corner of the room until he had to upend his bag in order to shove his footie kit in, already late for practice. He wasn’t training until the end of exam week, nor was he in fact going to have exams, at least not until the end of the school year in May. At least he could catch up on his readings, since all of his mates would be busy with exams anyway. 

He was definitely not going to stay at home for another two weeks, that’s for sure, not while there’s pints to be had and cute boys to be snogged, and the twenty quid train ticket he had to buy on the counter because he forgot his Railcard at uni was totally fucking worth it. He’s home. 

*

He jumps out of his bed at the slightest commotion in the hall, the pneumatic sound of the auto-close engine on the main door carrying through their paper-thin walls. He hopes it’s not one of the girls already – he likes them, mostly, when they’re not fussing about the washing up, but their willingness to go out with him and the other lads lasted for all of Freshers Week, and now they mostly do their own thing. Swanky bars in the Northern Quarter, probably, fuck if Louis knows.

Out in the hall and carrying what’s got to be the biggest fucking suitcase Louis’ ever seen is a stranger, his back turned – their new flatmate, probably another Erasmus student. The accommodation office tends to spread them out across halls instead of just putting them all together in one place, which Louis personally thinks would be best. If he was in Erasmus he sure as fuck would prefer to live with people he has at least some common ground with, but what does _he_ know.

Except the stranger turns around and he’s no stranger at all, nor is he an Erasmus student.

“Curly,” Louis smiles, leaning on his doorjamb and popping his hip, “You lost, or summat?”

Curly boy looks up from trying to struggle his monstrous suitcase over the threshold, “ _Oh_ ,” he’s dumbfounded for a second or two, his eyes giving Louis’ bare-chested, sweatpants-clad figure a once-over, “Hi – Louis, y’alright?”

Louis concentrates on controlling his micro-expressions so that he doesn’t show how much he’s preening – he’s not a Drama undergrad for shits and giggles – and points to the suitcase, one brow climbing up his forehead.

“Oh, I’m moving–” His eyes rake over the doors on the lower floor, “Here, actually,” He points to the door opposite Louis’, the vacant room, “Your flatmate Niall mentioned there was a vacancy and that his flatmates were cool, so I phoned the accommodation office.”

Louis doesn’t ask him to elaborate, because how anyone knows Niall is a question he’s stopped asking long ago.

“Where did you live, before?”

“Richmond Park,” He laughs when Louis makes a face, “Yeah, exactly.”

“Well,” Louis sighs, “You’ll definitely like Oak House, uh–”

“Harry,” He finishes for him, “Harry Styles.” He hesitates, “You remember me, right? From the–”

“LGBT society, yeah, ‘course I do. I‘m just rotten with names.”

In reality he hadn’t forgot the bloke’s name was Harry, couldn’t have, but it’s always nice to set the power dynamics early on, especially now that, apparently, they’re flatmates.

“So warm in here,” Harry interjects into the brief silence, single-handedly unwinding his scarf. 

“Liam likes it toasty,” Louis offers by way of explanation. Having the boiler on full blast during winter has turned out to be one of the few luxuries they can afford – and only because the weekly fees for the halls of residence include utilities – so fuck it if they’re not going to take advantage of it, “Liam being the lad on this one,” he points to the door directly behind Harry, “Niall’s there,” he points to the door adjacent Liam’s, “Shower and the loo are through here, and upstairs we have the kitchen, plus Anne, Abby, Huda and Lily.”

“Oh, cool,” Harry nods, “My mum’s name is Anne.”

Louis’ brow arches, “Okay,” He takes a step back into his room, his hand going to the doorknob, “I’ll leave you to it, Harry Styles. Welcome to flat thirty one.”

*

There’s a knock on his door some time later, “Hi, Louis, I’m popping round to the shop, do you want me to bring you anything back?”

Louis freezes mid-sentence on his book. “Just a second–” he calls, throwing the duvet back and pausing to fish a two pound coin out of his wallet before opening the door, “Could you get me some bread and a pint of milk? Whole milk, please,” he adds.

“Sure,” Harry smiles. He’s all decked out in running gear, trainers and all. “What kind of bread?”

“Just white bread,” Louis shrugs, “Medium soft, store brand?” 

Harry nods, taking the coin. 

“Sorry, are you actually _running_ to the shops?” Louis asks, his curiosity getting the best of him. It’s two fucking degrees out, for fuck’s sake.

“No,” Harry grins, shakes his head, “It’s freezing out, I’m just going to the Sainsbo’s down the road. But I’ll hit the gym later, so, no sense in changing twice.”

“Savvy,” Louis agrees, solemn. 

*

When Harry gets back to the flat, Niall and Liam are already home. Niall had gone from the airport straight to some bird’s room, apparently, which is not surprising at all. The lovesick look on his face as he talks about her is, though.

They’re in the kitchen, Louis having stopped to put on a hoodie and pick up a can of beans and a tea bag – from the good tea he brought from home – before going up when he heard the commotion. He’s grabbed his room key last minute, too, wouldn’t do to get locked out right on the first day back. Auto-locking and uni’s paranoia with fire-stopping doors had been the bane of Louis’ existence last term, but he’s learned his lesson after one too many treks to the RA wearing only a towel. He’s wiser now.

“Hey, Hazza!” Niall looks up from his frying bacon when Harry enters the room, arms laden with shopping bags. It’s got to be around five, but Niall doesn’t care, he’s having bacon butties. “I’m so glad you got the room, lad!”

Harry smiles at him as he crosses the kitchen, heaving the bags up and depositing them on the dining table just as Liam looks up from his phone, “Harry! Hey, man, didn’t know it was you who’d moved in!”

“You two know each other?” Louis asks, watching fascinated as Harry and Liam engage in some form of side-armed greeting that’s way too straight for someone whom Louis’ seen snog countless blokes on the clubs of Canal Street to know how to perform.

“Oh, yeah, we lift together at the Armitage all the time,” Harry answers when they disengage.

“Gym buddies? Gross,” Louis fake-heaves into the shopping bags while he fishes out his bread and milk.

At Harry’s bewilderment, Liam explains, “Louis hates the gym,” he makes a dismissive motion, “Just ignore him.” He points to Harry’s sports attire, “You coming or going?”

“Going,” Harry replies, eyes still on Louis, who’s humming to himself as he pops two slices into the toaster and puts the kettle on, “Just gonna make myself a snack.”

“Oh, sweet, I’ll go with!” Liam says, already hurrying out of the kitchen.

Louis’ eyes narrow. Having Harry in the flat is definitely an improvement over Ilya, _if_ he doesn’t try to steal Liam from him. He starts to plot ways to break apart this budding friendship as he dumps his beans into a Tupperware and pops it in the microwave. Harry bumps into him as the three of them navigate the tiny kitchen, and _fuck_ he smells good – very distracting, not conducive to formulating evil plans. 

Louis peeks over at what he’s shoving into a Nutribullet –  _great, now they have two of those –_  sliced bananas with peanut butter and a powder that looks like Whey protein but instead is probably one of those steroids that make your willy stop working. _Good,_ Louis thinks, it’s what he deserves for just barging in Louis’ flat, all fitted running shirt that shows off his biceps and dimples and deep voice, _ugh_.

He is positively fuming by the time the kettle boils and his toast pops out. It’s not even like Louis _wants_ him, right, because here’s the thing – he’s tapped that arse already. First night out with the LGBT society, they’d gone to G-A-Y after pre-drinks in the Student Union's bar, which, by the way, had £1.80 pints of Carlsberg, so Louis may or may not have been shitfaced, but he _remembers_ , alright. He’s not the kind to get blackout drunk to the point he forgets stuff, he’s sicking up in the loo before it gets to that, and that night he’d done neither so his memory is very much intact, _ta ever so_ , and he distinctly remembers snogging one Harry Styles in the smokers area – among others, obviously. 

It had been his first night out away from home, and to a gay club, too – a whole new world of cute boys to snog, Harry being just the first in many. Louis’d seen him slurping down someone else’s throat not two hours after they’d kissed and it hadn’t bothered him then (nor had it bothered him after, during every subsequent meeting of the LGBT society where they’d seen each other) so being so aware of Harry’s presence in his flat is ridiculous, is what it is. What Louis needs is a distraction.

“Niall, lad, a couple of pints at Squirrel’s later, what say you?” Louis says, not looking up from where he’s spreading beans on his toast.

“Sure thing, Tommo,” Niall replies, his mouth full, “Bet there’ll be no line for the pool tables, too, everyone’s home still. Hazza, you and Liam can join us after the gym?”

“I’ll ask him,” Harry says, “But I’m up for it. Not good at pool, though.”

Louis sips his tea to hide his frown.

*

Squirrel’s is a pub that, while not actually owned by the Student Union, is right by halls and has cheap beer, so, good enough, if Louis says so himself. Further proof that the majority of the patrons are students in the University of Manchester is that since term hasn’t actually restarted, the pub is the emptiest Louis has seen it at nine p.m. Where usually there’s raucous laughter and loud music, today the place is calm enough that Louis can actually hear the commentator of the rugby match rerun on the telly. 

They grab their pints and make their way to a booth, not quite in the mood to play yet.

“So, Lou, how do you like our new flatmate?” Niall asks him, waggling his eyebrows like he’s so very clever.

Louis resists the urge to roll his eyes, but barely.

“He’s alright, I suppose. Hadn’t talked to him much before today, really.”

“Wait, you two know each other? From where?”

Louis hesitates minutely before answering, thinking about how much Harry, with his white tanks and his stupid bro hugs, has told Niall. _Well_ , Louis reasons, can’t be that deep in the closet since he’s in the LGBT society. He tells Niall so.

“He went to a lot of meetings at first," Louis adds, "Not so much at the end of term, but I guess he was busy."

“Ohh, right, of course. I’d forgot about that.” He pauses, “What is it that you guys do in there, again?”

Louis grins, partly fond and partly exasperated. Niall has asked him that exact question at least another two times. “We discuss everything related to the queer universe, really. From sharing coming out stories, to listening to people who can’t come out at home, but we also just watch LGBT movies and discuss literature with queer representation, or lack of. Sometimes we go out to Canal Street, too. Bit of everything, really. Last meeting we talked about _Moonlight._ ”

“ _Oh_ , I watched that movie! It was aces,” Niall says, his beer sloshing dangerously in his pint glass as he enunciates, “In Moonlight, Black Boys Look Blue.”

“That’s the one,” Louis grins, “I guess the society is pretty much a support network inside uni, really. A lot of kids never had anywhere to talk about this stuff before coming here. Other than online, I mean.”

“Did you?”

Louis pauses to consider it, “With my mum, yeah. My best mate from home knew, but we didn’t really talk about it, I guess?” He frowns, “Well, definitely not like _you_ talk about it, trying to pimp me out to every half-witted git who happens to like dick.”

“Hey,” Niall shoves at his arm, laughing, “I’m just trying to be a good mate! You know how the flat walls are paper thin, I know exactly how much action you get, or _do not get_ , in this particular case.”

“You’re such a creeper, oh my god,” Louis feels a blush snaking up his neck, “My sex life is none of your business, Niall.”

“More like your _lack of_ ,” Niall grins, “C’mon, Tommo! You’re always going on and on about our _uni experience –_  well, I say part of it is shagging a _lot_ of people. You’re smart, you’re fit, you’re funny, you _cannot_ tell me you have trouble pulling.” He pauses, “Maybe you should download Grindr before you start going up the walls.”

Thing is, shagging a random guy is easier said than done. Not for lack of willing candidates, but for Louis’ own anxiety over the issue. What if he underperforms? What if he doesn’t like it up the bum? He’s never gone in through the back door, too, not even with his ex-girlfriend, so that’s another thing to worry about. Not to say that he doesn’t want to – he really fucking does, but it all seems very messy and with a potential for involving more bodily fluids than he’d like. Porn is completely unhelpful, too, with its waxed and bleached magical arseholes that need no stretching. Even _he_ knows there must be a lot of prepping done behind the scenes.

“I just don’t like having blokes round the flat, Niall,” he lies, runs his finger through the condensation on his pint glass, “Just because it doesn’t happen where you can hear it, doesn’t mean it’s not happening at all.”

“Why, though? You don’t think– You don’t think me and Liam would have a problem with it, do you?” He adds before Louis can answer, “Because I was the one who suggested Harry moving in, Lou, I do _not_ have an issue with blokes shagging blokes, you have to know that.”

“Neil, you’re giving yourself too much credit,” Louis smiles, “If you had a problem with it, I’d have a guy over every _day of the week_.”

“Tommo!” Niall laughs, “Yeah, that’s more like you.”

“What about you, then,” Louis jumps on the opportunity to change the subject, “Who’s this mystery lass that’s got you running over the minute you’re back in England?”

Niall blushes. _Blushes_. Louis is going to have a field day.

*

Liam arrives bearing pool tokens, Harry on his toes.

He raps his knuckles against the wooden table, once, twice, “Straight?”

“Not quite,” Louis fires back, pleased smirk at Liam’s eye-roll and Harry’s undignified snort, “Sure. Fifty to start?”

And so they make their way to the nearest pool table, Louis balancing his pint on the border before strolling to the line of old, worn out cues on the wall. He pretends not to listen as Harry turns to Niall, “Fifty… what? Fifty quid?”

 _As if_ they had fifty quid to spare.

“Fifty points,” Niall explains, “They’re playing straight pool. Each consecutive ball is worth a point.”

Louis picks out a long maple cue as Harry continues, “What is the bet, then?”

“Chores,” Louis answers for him, grinning, “Haven’t done me own washing _once_.” 

“Yeah, well, your luck’s run out,” Liam says from across the table, chalking his tip a little too hard for Louis to believe his smack talk.

“Been practising over hols, have we?” Louis leans his hip on the pool table, smiles. Liam gets so intense when they’re playing. It’s highly amusing, and a little bit hot, if he’s being honest, “Aw, Liam, you should’ve rung if you missed me so much. Might’ve gone down to Wolverhampton just to kick your arse.”

Louis smiles, beatic, at the way Liam’s eyes narrow. He pushes in five tokens at once _in lieu_ of answering, which is an answer in itself.

Louis picks up his pint glass, walks to the standing table where Niall and Harry have situated themselves as Liam racks the balls. He leaves the empty glass on the table, memorises which angle the other two have of the game.

Liam gets into position, leans over the table and makes a clean break. He _has_ practiced over hols, Louis notes with a pleased smile as he approaches the rail.

Usually he’d start out mellow, but tonight they have an audience that makes him want to show off. He sinks the five, the two, the ten, the twelve; then the four and the six with a single shot, and doesn’t look up until he’s ran the table.

When he does, it’s to Harry looking at him like he’s something wild. _Good_ , Louis thinks, and holds his gaze, dares him to look away, long enough for Liam to rack and break again. There’s something in the pit of his stomach when he bends at the waist to continue his game, his voice wavering when he calls, “Two in the corner pocket,” and sinks the seven instead, which is as good as scratching.

He lets out a breath through his nose and tries not to show his displeasure. Tries to remember he’s playing against Liam, and not eye-fucking Harry. 

Liam, dutiful, runs the table two times and only scratches at thirty-eight, which is unacceptable and much too close to fifty for Louis’ comfort. He does _not_ want to have to handle Liam’s smelly gym clothes in any way.

With newfound determination, he starts his inning and only takes _one_ shot while arching his back and pushing his arse out in Harry’s direct line-of-sight, that’s how focused he is. He runs the table once, twice, thrice, refuses to look in Harry’s direction while Liam reracks for the third time, then sinks the remaining balls to fifty so fast he barely has time to call the shots.

“Holy shit,” Harry whispers, so quietly the words don’t carry and Louis only knows what he’s said because he was looking at Harry’s mouth. 

Liam comes to shake his hand, and Louis concedes, “You’re getting good, Liam. For someone who couldn’t sink ten at the start of term, thirty eight is impressive.”

Liam gives him a toothy grin, “Give me a few more weeks and I’ll be running laps around you.”

Louis highly doubts it. He’s ran almost two hundred once, but no one fucking believes him.

“Let’s play eight-ball,” Niall calls, walking over to the cue rack, “Louis gets Harry so we’re evened out.” 

Harry looks a bit alarmed at the pool cue being thrust in his direction. 

Louis tries to contain his grin even as he says, “You could go three against one and it still wouldn’t be even, Neil, I’m that good.” 

“I don’t doubt you can work magic with your hands on wood, but cocky doesn’t suit you.” Harry says, and the _nerve_ on him, arriving today and already taking liberties.

"Why are you smack talking _me,_ Harold, when I'll have to carry all the weight in this team," he cocks his hips on the table, flicks his fringe away from his eyes, "Since clearly _you're_ no good with your hands on wood."

"You never know, I might surprise you," he fires back, "And It's just _Harry_."

"Do you think spraying them with water would do the trick, Liam?" Niall says from across the table, loudly.

"Heard that's no good, Nialler," Liam says, chalking up his tip like one would inspect one's nails, "You just have to let the mating ritual play out."

Louis, despite himself, feels a blush creeping up his neck. _Diversion_ , his brain urges, "I'm feeling charitable tonight," he announces, resolutely not making eye contact with Harry, "So we'll break. Give you lot a chance at winning."

Liam scoffs, "How the fuck is that being _charitable_?"

Louis smiles, " _Harold_ will break."

"Do I need to show you my id? It's _Harry_ ," he pauses, "I don't know how to play."

"I'll explain as we go. Just," he points his cue stick to the racked balls, "Try to hit this one in the front as head-on as you can. The more spread out you get them, the better, but don't let the white one go into the pockets."

"I know how it starts," Harry looks up from examining the task at hand, "But how am I supposed to control which direction it'll go?"

"It all depends on how you hit the first ball. Here," he helps him get into position, one hand at his hip and the other at his elbow, "You need to get in line with the shot. Are you left-handed?"

"No," Harry answers, and leans down at an angle that might buy him drinks but it sure as fuck won't help a clean shot.

"Put your right foot in line with the cue. Yeah, like this. Twist your hip to give your right arm more space. Left foot to the left of the cue, not behind your left arm." 

"You know," Liam starts, conversational, "I've always reckoned there must be something different in a bloke trying to pull other bloke," he turns to Niall, "D'you reckon it's always like this, or Louis is just unimaginative?"

He ducks down just in time to avoid a swipe of Louis' cue.

"Stop talking shit," Louis warns, still holding his cue like a sword, "You're not going to get away from doing our washing. C'mon, Harry, shoot."

Harry takes a deep breath, trains his eyes on the cue ball, his arms rehearsing the movement in slow, careful motions. He brings his arm back, and takes the shot.

The balls barely spread out. The other three exchange a look.

"So," Niall claps his hands, bright, "Rerack?"

*

"Once again so we're all clear," Louis smiles into his pint, "Niall will do the next two weeks of Harry's washing, Liam will do the next four of mine," he sighs, contented. Another month of successfully avoiding the laundry room.

"I usually do mine on Friday," Niall tells Harry, "Just leave it out in the hall before you go to class."

Harry looks a bit uncomfortable, "It's ok, you don't really need to-" 

"Of course he does," Louis interrupts, "We won fair and square. Trust me, they would _not_ be releasing us from duty if they'd won."

Niall and Liam both nod their heads in agreement. "We still got plenty of time to beat you into doing ours, don't worry."

Harry laughs, "Ok, fine."

Their version of leaving out the washing is just to chuck their dirty clothes in these huge Ikea bags they got when shopping for dorm stuff, but he bets Harry has a proper hamper and everything. Uses fabric softener. Puts his clothes away instead of leaving them on a pile in his chair.

What a weird life he must lead.

Liam gulps the rest of his pint, and turns to him. 

"Listen, Lou," Liam starts. He looks a bit sheepish, "Some mates of mine were planning to go to Magaluf this summer."

Something ugly weighs heavy in Louis' gut, and he hopes it doesn't show. "You should go, obviously. Bet it will be _carnage_ , or whatever slang you straights are using these days."

It gets a smile out of Liam, even if it dies fast. "I'd rather go to Prague with you lads, you know that, right?"

"Obviously. We're all kinds of awesome," he claps Liam in the back, ”Don't sweat it, Li. There's always next year, eh?"

Liam looks sufficiently mollified, and so Louis excuses himself to go for a piss.

He's been trying not to think too much about their planned lads holiday that never will be, because it gets him fucking depressed, and then he's back to beating himself up over losing the _stupid_ laptop, and there goes his good mood.

University of Manchester is crawling with wankers, from the Oxbridge rejects who think they're too good to be here to the rich overseas kids who are still mad daddy didn't send them to London– but it also has the best fucking people Louis has ever met, his flatmates most of all.

They'd bonded incredibly fast, joined at the hip by the end of Freshers Week. Louis is really fucking lucky, he really is. They've all come to uni hoping for a better situation than whatever they had at home, be it closeting, bullying or money. He loves that they can take the piss over it without feeling sorry for themselves but he loves it even more that he can declare to not afford stuff without hearing back shit like _just ask your parents_ or _stop eating out_. 

Louis can't remember ever eating out here in Manchester, unless you count the McDonald's across Egerton Road as fine dining. He's never paid more than five quid to get into a party, and that was once or twice. Even before losing his laptop there wasn't a lot of money to blow on stupid shit, and Liam can afford a lads holiday but not two, Niall knows how to eat well with twenty quid a week on groceries.

That's not to say they don't have fun – Niall also knows about the best deals on alcohol even if sometimes they have to go to Stretford for it, and Oak House has the best halls parties, where you can justify your presence with a twenty-pack of Carlsberg that you got for twelve quid at Aldi between the three of you and miraculously not run out of drinks all night, like some sort of uni-themed multiplication miracle.

When he gets back to their booth, coats are being put on, even though it's fucking eleven, and he tells them so.

"Two tests tomorrow," Niall points to himself, "One test Wednesday afternoon."

"So? First year marks don't count!"

"You say that because you only have exams in May now," Liam laughs, "Get back to me on that after Easter."

"Twat." Louis rolls his eyes, picks up his coat. It's made out of a bin bag, according to his sister Lottie. Like her fashion sense is so much better.

"I've got a few Stellas in the fridge," Harry says as they're following the other boys back towards their court. He walks too fucking slow for someone with so much leg, in Louis' opinion. "And no exams this week, too, just one next week. So, nightcap?"

"Sure," Louis readily agrees. He can never turn down free alcohol, especially when he doesn't even have to leave his flat for it. "What's your course, again?"

"Law."

"Posh," Louis teases, "You want to be a solicitor or a barrister?"

"Do you even know the difference?"

"No," Louis huffs, "But you can tell me."

Harry doesn't answer immediately. Something rattles inside a bin as they pass it. Could be a squirrel, could be a rat. Equal chances, really.

"I want to be neither," Harry answers finally.

"What the fuck are you reading law for, then? You a masochist, or what?"

Harry chuckles, "It's a secret."

"Well that's not fair," Louis frowns, "I know fuck-all about Law, I'll never guess it."

"I don't want you to guess it."

Louis squints up at him. If he's trying to put on a _dark and mysterious_ front, he's doing a piss-poor job of it. Could use some lessons from Louis' weed guy.

*

They're hit with a block mass of hot air when they re-enter the flat. The upstairs shower is running, which means at least one of the girls is home.

They say their goodnights to Niall and Liam, and Louis stops to drop his coat in his bedroom and change into sweatpants. Harry's already in the kitchen when Louis goes up, sprawled on the long bench that runs under the window, two tall cans in the table in front of him.

Everything is deceptively quiet because people are still coming back from hols, not to mention exam week, but by February the halls will be _no man's land_ again. He can't wait.

"So," Harry locks his phone and puts it face down on the table, "I really wanna know, how come you're so good at pool?"

"What," Louis plays dumb, "A gay man can't be good at it?"

Harry gives him a look, "I just mean, it seems like there's a story behind it."

"There is," Louis purses his lips, "But _it's a secret_."

"Come on," Harry's leg moves to give him a weak kick under the table, "I'll share my beer, you share the story."

"There's no story," Louis insists, "I just like it."

"Liar," Harry narrows his eyes, leans forward, "I've already asked Niall."

"What did he say?" Louis asks before he can think better of it. 

Harry's grin tells him he fell for a bluff.

"Nothing," Harry concedes, "But he made the exact same face you're doing now. So I know it must be good."

Louis gulps down some more of his beer before saying, "Don't be so nosy, Harold. It's unbecoming."

Louis is not drunk, but he's clearly had enough to drink that Harry's pout makes him sigh and say, "Fine. Get us another one first, though."

Harry grins, excited, and slides to the end of the bench. It must be the dimples, Louis thinks, the beer and the dimples.

He's only ever told this story once – because every other person in his life either lived through it with him or didn't even know he was gay in the first place – and it was an abridged version, tailored for Niall and Liam's straight ears, back when they didn’t know each other all that well. 

He reckons he doesn't need to walk on those particular eggshells with Harry.

"So, a few months before GCSEs our school put together this class to help out with revision for maths," Louis starts, once Harry is back at the table, "'cause, you know, we were totally going to tank the school average." 

Harry smiles, "Or because they cared so much about your proper education."

"So very much," Louis agrees, gives a weak chuckle, "Anyway, it was a teacher from sixth form. And he was so. Bloody. Fit," he adds, wide-eyed for emphasis, "The star of every wank I had for months, really. Like, sexual awakening levels of fit. Calvin Klein model levels of fit."

"And he was super cool, too," he continues, "Like, he actually cared if we understood or not. Had all these different examples of real-life applications for maths – like, geometry and pool. And you could see by the way he talked, he actually knew what he was talking about."

"Can't believe you started playing to impress a teacher," Harry shakes his head as he laughs.

"Well," Louis smiles, "If you saw what he looks like, you'd understand."

Harry just shakes his head at him, drinks his beer.

"I asked him after class one day, if he liked playing. He said yes, asked if I played, I said yes." Louis grins, "Hadn't ever touched a pool stick in me life, but I thought we were flirting."

"Oh, no, c'mon," Harry groans, "GCSE's year, we were, what, fifteen? Sixteen? Proper pedo."

"I said I _thought_ he was flirting, Harold," he takes a sip of his beer, "There was this rumour round school that he was gay 'cos he was, like, perpetually single. So I'd stay to chat after class, and I thought we were flirting, and I remember thinking, like, I lied about playing pool, if he knew I lied, I'd blow it. So obviously I had to learn to play pool."

"Obviously," Harry agrees, solemn, "You were pretty much obsessed, innit?"

"Pretty much," Louis agrees, "Getting him to fancy me became, like, my life mission. I spent the whole summer learning to play with my best mate Stan in this shady little pub 'round his house – couldn't be near mine 'cos if my mum found out I'd be done for. I even sat mathematics for AS Levels."

" _No_ ," Harry smiles, incredulous, "Really? You're having me on."

"Swear it," Louis nods, "Got me a B, too," he laughs, "I suppose it was a productive crush, at least. So anyway, by the next summer I was, like, proper good at it. Everyone knew me at Stan's pub and my mum was convinced I was dating him, which I sort of never denied so she wouldn't be on my case for being round his so much. By then me and Stan had done a proper Facebook stalking to see where he played, and it was like, literally, across town."

Louis shakes his head, "So me and Stan started popping round on weekends – I had to pay Stan's bus fare and mine to get him to come with me, too. We had the bus pass but it was still eighty pence each, per leg. I was depleting my allowance reserves," he smiles, "We didn't even see him for the first, like, eight times. But the blokes in that pub were way better at pool than at Stan's, so we were still enjoying ourselves. I guess they saw us as these, like, mascots or summat, showed us the tricks and all that. Stan likes to play but he has shit aim, while I got proper good at it. At first I was on a mission to get me that dick, but I ended up liking it along the way."

He laughs, takes another healthy sip of his beer. Christ, Stan really was a saint for putting up with him.

"Well?" Harry prompts, "What happened?"

Louis looks up at him, "What do you mean, what happened? I just told you, I spent all of sixth form playing, that's how I got good."

"C'mon, Louis," he huffs, "Really? You're not gonna tell me the rest of it?"

Louis frowns at him, a bit slow on the uptake. Then it dawns on him, " _Oh_ , you mean with the teacher?" Harry shoots him a look, "No, listen, I only told this story to Niall and Liam. They weren't that interested in that part."

"Well, I am," Harry shoots back, looking stubborn and a bit embarrassed, "Did you shag your maths teacher, then?"

For a split second, Louis considers lying. It's obvious by now some part of him wants to impress Harry, and not only with his pool skills. 

Thing is, Niall and Liam already know he didn't, "No," he sighs, "I mean, he was tempted, but in the end he turned me down."

"Tempted how?" Harry prompts.

"There was some lap sitting," Louis wills himself not to blush, "I could tell he was hard. He said he was flattered, but if someone saw us, no soul on earth would believe it only started _after_ I finished school."

" _Louis,"_ Harry grins, wide, clearly finding it so very amusing. He gets up to them two more beers, unprompted, "When was this? Where? You're not telling it straight."

" _Harry_ ," Louis parrots him, shakes his head, "Ok, let's see. Where did I stop?"

"Summer after year twelve," Harry supplies, helpful, "You started hanging out at your teacher's pub like a creepy stalker."

Louis flips him off, "Right, we started going right after AS levels. We could only go on Saturdays and Sundays, though, or I'd spend all my money on bus fare. Stan looked eighteen now so we got away with a pint now and then, too. I thought, I don't want to meet him here and not even have money for a chippie, and asking for more money at home was just not an option, so I got this summer job in the stockroom of a Sports Direct that was, like, way closer to the pub than to home, so I wouldn't have to lie to mum about where I was, it was all working out."

"I used to be a baker," Harry says when Louis stops to take another sip of his beer. At Louis' puzzled face, he adds, "You know, since we were mentioning summer jobs."

"Right," Louis shakes his head. They might not be drunk, but they're not sober either, "So anyways, I started stopping by after my shifts every day, but just for a round or two. I wasn't even expecting to meet him, I just liked to play. Feels good being great at something, you know? When I got my first paycheque, Stan and I went in and got pissed and stayed until closing, it was epic. We were feeling like proper adults. And then on Saturday when we got there, some of the staff that knew us were taking the piss on Stan for getting sick in the bins after, like, four pints – and there he was."

"Ohhhh," Harry coos, clutching his beer to his face with both hands, "Did you get butterflies in your stomach?"

"Actually, I did," Louis laughs, "He came over to talk to us and I called him by his first name, Anthony, and pretended I knew him from the pub, like everyone else. At first he made this face," he snorts, "I think he thought I was going to start calling him by his first name at school, too, which I didn't, obviously."

"Obviously," Harry agrees, sombre. He's leaning on the window a bit like the tower of Pisa. Louis wonders if he's noticed.

"So, yeah, nothing happened that summer. No one there knew he was my teacher but every time I got within less than a meter from him, he went away in the other direction, like those magnets that push each other apart, you know?" He demonstrates it with his hands, "He would go round the table the longer way just to avoid brushing up against me, and when I moved to take a shot he would move too, like we were playing duck duck goose or something."

Harry snorts at that, "Did you beat him?"

"I did, actually," Louis smiles, "Told you I was already proper brilliant at it. He was impressed, yeah, but like I said he would not let me get near. And to make things worse, Stan started to have mixed feelings about it – like, I convinced him to do all that shit with me and he knew it was because of Anthony, but when it was time to actually, like, try to pull, he would say shit like, 'he's so much older', 'but he's your teacher', and the likes, so I also had Stan trying to cockblock me. School started and mum wouldn't let me stay out late even on weekends, and seeing him every day as my teacher, I just knew it wasn't going to happen, you know?"

"Well, he was right. He was your teacher and you were a minor – the age of consent is eighteen if the older party is in a position of power," He announces, solemn, tapping his temple as he adds, "It's all in here. I am The Law."

"Right, more likely you know that because you also wanted to shag someone older, but I'll let it slide," Louis sprawls a bit over the table, supporting his head on one elbow. He's getting kind of sleepy.

"You still haven't got to the part where you give him a lap dance."

Louis snorts, straightens up again, "I didn't give him a lap dance. But, like, once the semester started to pick up rhythm I was more concerned with A levels, you know? And hearing back from our lovely alma mater."

"Was it your first choice?" Harry asks, back turned to him as he gets more beer. Is is their fourth can? Fifth?

"Yeah, it was, actually. The day I got the email from UCAS, I thought my heart was going to fall out of my arse," he laughs, "Was it yours?"

Harry nods as he sits back down, his movements uncoordinated, and prompts him to keep talking.

"Right, so, I've got me offer, my A-levels are done, I'm moving away at the end of summer, so I thought, sod it, you know? It's now or never. I tell mum I'm sleeping over at Stan's, put on my best pulling jeans and I go, alone. And he's there, which, like, has got to be a sign, yeah? So I challenge him to a game, buy us pints, and I'm up there on that table like I'm shooting the cover for Attitude, Harry, I swear." 

They laugh, Harry clutching at his own belly, “Did you make sure he got a good look down your cleavage? Pretended to wank your cue?”

“All of it,” Louis nods, “He loses his turn, someone else comes to play, and then it’s late, everyone is going home, I haven’t really done anything all evening, you know – proper bricking it and all. I go looking for him, he’s round the back having a fag, and it’s rained so I just go, and like, sit in his lap.”

“Just like that? Just sat in his lap?” Harry smiles, incredulous.

“Listen, it was my first time trying to pull, okay? Give me a break.” Louis chuckles, “And he’s like, _Louis, what are you doing_ , and I’m like, _everything’s wet_ , wiggle a bit on his lap, put my arm round his shoulder. By then he’s like, tomato red, okay, so I know I’m on the money trail. I pick the cigarette off his hand, and it’s Marlboro, which, _bleurgh_ , but I don’t make a face or anything.”

Harry’s not making a sound. The beer can’s sweating in his hand, “He goes, _Louis, you’re gonna get me fired_ , and I’m like, _but I’ve left school_ , and he’s like, _two months ago, it doesn’t make a difference._ He’s hard, alright, I can feel it poking at me bum, so I think he’s just playing hard to get, so I bend down to kiss him and the wanker just – gets up!” Louis covers his face with his hands, the humiliation from that day burning anew, “At least he held my arm so I didn’t, like, topple off, but he got up and he went all, _I’m flattered, but I could get fired_ , yada yada, _I really can’t, you’re only eighteen,_ you know it. And then he just turns around and walks away, just like that. And I’m standing there, Marlboro still in me hand, looking like an arse _-_  it was awful, Harry.”

He peeks between his fingers to find Harry looking very amused, “I’m sorry,” a small giggle escapes, “I’m sorry you got rejected, but, like, I wish I could’ve seen your face.”

“It’s not funny,” Louis moans, leans down to rest his forehead on the table. He’ll probably be like, fifty, and still want to die every time he remembers it. He turns his head, “But hey, when I saw Stan on my birthday last month, he told me someone from school saw him in town with a guy who was, like, much older. Could’ve been his dad, but I’m choosing to believe he’s only into older guys.”

“Could be,” Harry muses, “Could be that his type is just, you know, _not his students_ , too. That’s what I’d bet on.”

“Sod off,” Louis closes his eyes again. The room feels like it’s, very lightly, spinning. A cozy spin, not a _I’m going to be sick_ spin.

“You could try again in, like, five years,” Harry suggests.

“I’m never looking at him again,” Louis whines, “Never going into that pub again.”

They stay quiet for a while. Outside, someone starts shouting.

“So if you spent all those years pining,” Harry muses, voice airy, “I take it you never had a boyfriend?”

Louis grunts. It’s as good a confirmation as he’s going to get.

“But hey, you know what’s better than your teacher’s knob?” Louis can hear Harry’s throat working as he takes a gulp, “A lucrative hobby and a B in mathematics.”

“You mean _pool_?” Louis looks up, “I’m good but I’m not _that_ good, Harold. I wouldn’t hold my own against a pro.”

“I’m not talking about going pro,” Harry’s brows furrow, “You’ve never played for cash?”

Louis shakes his head, “I’ve never even _been_ to a pool hall before.”

“What about where you played?”

“Betting in pubs is illegal, didn’t you know that, Mr. _I am the law_?” He accompanies the question with air-quotes, “We’d be banned from Squirrel’s in a blink, and I don’t fancy having to walk to Owens Park for a cheap pint, do you?”

“Louis, c’mon, don’t be naive,” Harry chuckles, “You know there are pubs that don’t give a shit if you’re betting as long as you’re a paying customer, but you’re not gonna find them on bloody _Piccadilly Gardens_ , are you?”

“Harry, look at us,” Louis laughs, “ _Really_ look at us. How long do you think we’d last hustling in some shoddy pub in Hulme, or wherever the fuck?”

“You’d be surprised,” Harry comments, but doesn’t elaborate.

Louis shakes his head, “Alright, curly,” he announces, “I’m afraid the time has come for me to cut you off. That’s too much shit you’re talking, even for _-_ ” He turns to look at Liam’s Baggies wall clock that’d mysteriously made its way to the kitchen during hols, “Midnight.”

“You can’t cut me off of _my_ beers,” Harry grumbles, but he gets up to put their empty cans with the rest of the recycling.

All eight cans, four in each hand. 

Louis absolutely doesn’t let his mind wander.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lemonade Stroke ( _slang_ ): An intentionally amateurish shot to disguise one's ability to play.  
> [tumblr](http://leavingonatrain.tumblr.com)  
>   
> [[reblog the fic post]](http://leavingonatrain.tumblr.com/post/170132085140/fic-lemonade-stroke-by-leavingonatrain-pairing)  
> 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter mentions misuse of emergency contraceptives and uni-typical binge drinking (And it goes without saying, as this is a pool hustling au, that there are bets for money, aka gambling, involved).  
> I realise there’s only so much I can do to describe a game of pool with words before it gets boring, so this is me promising you that this is the only pool-heavy chapter, because it’s important that you, as the reader, get a feel of their dynamics and Louis’ actual level of skill. Happy reading!

By Thursday most people are balls deep into exam week, so Louis hasn’t really done all the drinking he would've liked, and he’s getting a bit bored of sleeping the whole day. He has plans of stopping by the Student Union to see if there are new postings on jobs around the university (even though he knows most positions were filled early into the school year and not by freshers), then he’ll head to the library to use the computers to access his Student Finance account.

Harry was right about one thing – having the hots for Anthony meant a level of dedication to maths he would’ve never bothered with otherwise, and it’s saving his arse now that he has to manage all of his money on his own. It’s a fucking _feat_ he hasn’t gone into his student overdraft yet, even if he knows it’s mostly because he spent the whole of hols at home, getting stuffed with food like he was the turkey on Christmas dinner. It’s resulted in a bit of a tummy, but nothing he can’t get rid of with footie practice and not having a full fridge at his disposal anymore.

When he lived at home blowing all of his wages meant not being able to buy pints, or having to flake out of seeing the latest Marvel at Odeon with the lads. Now the stakes are higher. He doesn’t have to worry about moving around, at least – his mum bought him the annual unirider back at Freshers Fair, another bullet point in a long list of why Louis has the best mum ever and why he’s a total fuck up. If only he’d lost the fucking bus pass instead of the laptop, he could tell her. He’d still get a bollocking, but by the end of the phone call she wouldn’t be mad at him anymore. 

Instead he’s left carrying around the weight of lying to her, of saying he left the laptop at halls when he packed for Christmas break because he had no exams in January and he didn’t want to study over Christmas nor leave it around where the twins could get their grubby little hands on it. 

He’s only partly convinced that she bought it, and anyway, he’s not going to be able to pull that one off again at Easter break, which means he’ll have to replace it by April on top of making do with a maintenance loan that’s already too fucking low to begin with, and there’s no budgeting in the fucking world that’s going to make it all add up to a situation where he buys the fucking laptop and eats and prints all the shit he needs for his coursework and still has a bit of money left to _live_ with.

He’d rather fucking starve than tell his mum he lost it, is the thing. There’s no possible scenario where he doesn’t come up with a thousand quid by the end of term. There can’t be.

On the upside, not having a laptop means he is wholly dependant on the library, whether it’s for printing copies of his assigned readings or lending books, and this is shaping up to be another term where, despite absolutely _not_ being an overachiever, Louis is going to end up ahead of his coursework motivated by sheer boredom and guilt. Liam is absolutely fucking right – it doesn't matter that first year marks don't count towards his degree because his mum is going to ask about them and it's not like he has to show her a report card or anything, but he can't _keep fucking lying to her_. He's lied about pool, about Anthony, about the fucking laptop, and he doesn't even fucking know which one would make her the most cross, and she doesn't deserve this.

He’s up and showered by seven. Exam week means that every single wanker that hasn’t set foot in the learning commons _once_ takes it upon themselves to camp there for the week (as if it’ll compensate the whole semester of not giving a shit about their modules), and Louis wants to be at the ready when the library doors open at eight. The second semester doesn’t start for another ten days but Louis needs to be the first one loaning the reference books he can’t illegally download, because he sure as fuck can’t afford to buy them. He’s got twelve readings for his Theory and Text module _alone_ , and cursed be the day Louis applied for the Drama and English Literature programme instead of just Drama because he thought it would make him more employable. 

*

The smell of coffee slaps him round the face when he enters the kitchen. Lily and Anne are stood by the pot, looking like death warmed over, and judging by their clean faces and loungewear, Louis suspects it’s not because of a night out. 

“Morning,” he nods as he passes them on his way to the kettle, “Y’alright?”

“Peachy,” Anne answers him, while Lily makes some indescribable noise into her coffee mug, “Can’t wait to be done with exams.”

Louis nods, empathetic, even though he hasn’t ever pulled an all-nighter before a test. He rather suspects he won’t make it out of uni without the experience, though.

The door opens and Huda ambles in, three empty cans of Monster Ultra clutched to her chest. She eyes the other girls and they all nod in shared misery, before moving to put her cans in the recycling bin. It’s all so quiet that Louis jumps when the toaster goes off.

He’s spreading butter on his toast when the door bangs against the wall and in comes a very loud, very good humoured Harry. 

“Moorning sunshines,” he singsongs, and Louis has a moment of sympathy for him ‘cause he’s about to get hit full force with _The Death Glares_ , except the most bizarre thing happens – they all smile at the sight of him. Even Huda. “I come bearing pre-exam sustenance,” he says, depositing two heavy brown bags of McDonald’s takeaway on the counter, and Louis must still be dreaming because Lily does a happy dance at the sight of the bags and says, “You’re the best, Hazza!”

_Hazza?_

“Is Abby awake yet? Her first exam is at eight,” Harry says, and looks around the kitchen until his eyes land on his, “Oh, hey, Louis!”

Louis only nods, tea clutched to his chest, still not entirely convinced he hasn’t woken up in the Upside Down or some shit.

Harry leaves the kitchen, presumably to wake Abby up, and the three girls start to pull out mcmuffins and bagels and hash browns out of the bag. It’s really nice of Harry but Louis hopes the girls gave him the money and he is simply the delivery guy, because that has got to be at least twenty pounds in food, right, and Louis can’t fucking relate.

He’s left watching the whole scene unfold, too fucking intrigued to even pretend to mind his own business, as Harry comes back with a bleary eyed Abby and the four girls sit around the table. He grabs a bacon roll and a cheesy bacon flatbread and leans over the counter next to Louis, “Pick.”

“No, I’m fine,” Louis says, even as Harry’s pouting and giving him the puppy dog eyes. Louis rolls his eyes and picks the flatbread, because the whole kitchen’s smelling of McDonalds breakfast menu and Louis wasn’t all that enthusiastic about his toast to begin with. He leans in close to Harry and whispers, “When did this happen?”

“When did what happen?” Harry frowns as he bites into the bacon roll. He’s in sports gear, which seems to be one of his only two wardrobe modes. The other involves some variation of flannels, t-shirts, black skinnies and Chelsea boots, but not much.

“This,” Louis makes a vague head gesture that’s supposed to convey his bewilderment at the situation, but alas, Harry continues to look confused.

Louis sighs and pulls him out of the room and down the stairs by the wrist, because their kitchen is tiny and impossible to have a private conversation in.

He turns to him at the bottom of the stairs, “What the fuck was _that_ ,” he whispers, because they live in a prison complex disguised as student accommodation and not even two doors and a floor is guarantee of not being heard, “When did you become their token gay bff?”

Harry frowns, “It’s not like that,” he swallows his mouthful of bacon bread, continues, “They’re as friendly to me as you lads were, and I haven’t heard the word _makeove_ r once.”

“They’re not _friendly_ ,” Louis scoffs, “Nor do they own the flat, you know? You don’t need to try to win them over, you’ve got us.”

Harry blinks at him, “This may come as a shock, Louis,” he says, somewhat sarcastic, “But women are quite nice to talk to, even if you’re not attracted to them.”

Louis slaps him in the bicep, “I’m not a misogynist,” he sighs, runs the back of his hand over his temples, “Look, I just– I’ve been here before, you know? Freshers Week, we went out together, the seven of us, every day of the week, but then– they got tired of us, I guess?” he shrugs, “I’m just saying, don’t spend your time and money on them, because they are not going to let you in.”

“That has not been my experience at all,” Harry crosses his arms, leans on the wall, “Are you sure you’re not jealous because they didn’t pick _you_ to be their gay bff?”

“Oh, fuck off,” Louis rolls his eyes, even as he leans into his room to fish out his messenger bag and coat, lets the door lock behind him, “When they start icing you out, don’t say I didn’t warn you, eh?”

Harry rolls his eyes back, “Consider me warned.”

He starts to go back up the stairs and Louis remembers to add, “Thanks for the food,” before heading out the door.

*

He paces the length of the bus shelter, mind going a mile a minute.

Because the thing is, he’s not jealous, right, he’s _not._ It’s not like it was Louis’ life mission to be their friend or anything, okay, but he did feel a bit miffed, obviously. He didn’t really dwell on it, though, because what did it even matter when he had the best boys in the world?

In the end he’d chalked it up to them all being a bit homophobic or just regular dickheads, but like, clearly not, if they’re being this nice to Harry, right?

So why the fuck is Louis not good enough for them?

*

He doesn’t get back to the flat until seven, his messenger bag packed full of books and cutting through his shoulder, wet as a dog because it never stops raining in Manchester. His stomach is fucking _growling_ , has been for the better part of an hour, but for once Louis was victorious in the _I have food at home_ internal monologue and didn’t cave in and buy a packet of Walkers at the vending machine, so he’s counting today as a win.

Well, the whole day of making inroads into his coursework for next semester was nice, too, but mostly the not spending. 

*

Harry’s at the kitchen with Niall when Louis walks in, can of baked beans in hand, and he’s fucking everywhere, _god_ , Louis has half a mind of writing him a note, _get out of my flat_.

He’s not going to, obviously, ‘cause he’s clearly the only person in this whole flat that’s not totally fucking smitten by Harry Styles, and he doesn’t much fancy being found out.

“Lou, glad you’re here!” Niall says around a mouthful of ready-made cottage pie. It’s not even the individual portion he’s eating out of, too, Louis being able to see the _family meal deal_ packaging on the counter behind him. Niall’s usually very diligent about his spending, but Louis knows cottage pies are his weakness.

“What up, Nialler?” he says, and then, just because he can, turns to Harry and says, saccharine, “Hi, _Hazza_.”

Harry rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling around his– whatever the fuck it is that he’s eating, Louis can discern chicken breast and nothing else.

“Ok, catching you up real quick,” Niall says, as Louis sets on making his tea, “As I was telling Harry here, Liam’s had the most brilliant idea for a lads holiday.”

Louis tries not to grimace. They’ve got to have come up with about four lads holidays by now, each less extravagant than previous one, and all of them still not affordable to him. They won’t go without him, because ‘a holiday of two is a honeymoon’, but maybe now that Harry’s part of the group they’ll set off on a happy little threesome and leave Louis behind.

“Ok, let’s hear it,” Louis says, not meeting Niall’s eye as he moves around the kitchen, “Where to, this time?”

“Mullingar!” Niall grins, “On St. Patrick’s. Getting pissed, Irish-style.”

“St. Patrick’s, huh?” Louis says, humouring him. He already knows he’s not going, “But isn’t everything, like, expensive and crowded around St. Patrick’s? It’s the most famous holiday.”

“For tourists, maybe, but the Irish know how to celebrate a proper St. Patrick’s that doesn’t break the bank,” he forks another mouthful, “I’d take the car and drive you lot to the parade on the seventeenth, we’re only an hour away from Dublin, but we can take the booze with us in the boot. That’s what my cousin Willie did every year with his mates when he was younger.”

“Which one is Willie? The married one?”

“Engaged,” Niall corrects, “They’re going away for the weekend, his fiancée and him, and I was already supposed to go and feed their pets, so I asked them if I could have friends over ‘cos, like, you won’t all fit in my mum and dad’s, and he said yes as long as no one sleeps in their bedroom, which is fine ‘cos they have a guest bedroom and a sofa bed anyway, so that’s the accommodation sorted.”

“Nice,” Louis says, as he closes the oven door with his breaded fish in it. He’s already made a start on the beans ‘cause he’s so bloody hungry, “So we go, stay at your cousin's, go to the parade, get pissed. Sounds like a lads holiday to me.”

“I was telling him we could also go to the cliffs,” Harry says from the table, “Them fancy ones you always see in the telly when they mention Ireland.”

“Yes, Cliffs of Moher,” Niall says, “I’ve only been there once on a school trip. They’re wicked, I could take you guys there too. It’s an hour away but, like, in the other direction.”

Louis joins Harry at the table while his fish gets ready. Niall paces around the kitchen, cottage pie in hand, as he continues, “We did the math already: fifty quid return flight with Ryanair, and then one hundred euro should get us through visiting the cliffs and drinking the weekend away if we mostly eat at my mum’s, which I’m planning to. Fucking miss her food.”

“One hundred and fifty quid, that’s–" Still out of his fucking budget, “Less than Prague. Did you look at the airfare? It’s two months away and round St. Patrick’s even, it might be expensive now.”

“Yeah yeah, we looked at them today,” Niall says, dumping the empty packaging of his tea in the bin. A whole family meal, _god_ , Niall. “Better buy them as soon as you can, though. Flying in Thursday, flying out Sunday but not in the morning ‘cos St Patrick’s on Saturday and we’ll be so fucking hungover. And, like, you can help Li and Harry with the Ryanair website, right? You always buy mine. A fucking trap, that thing.”

Louis indeed knows how to avoid all the hidden charges in the Ryanair website, even if he’s never left the country himself. He's learned it purely so that Niall doesn’t get robbed of like, fifty quid in charges for every flight, that’s how good a friend he is. 

He still can’t afford it, though. “I’m going to do some budgeting, and get back to you, ok?” He gets up to check on his fish even if it’s been, like, five minutes. Being busy means he doesn’t have to lie to Niall’s face.

“Sure thing,” Niall says, already at the door, “It’s going to be fucking sick, having you lads for St. Patrick’s. Fucking sick.”

When the door closes behind him, Louis sighs and goes back to the table, plops down on the bench.

He hates this. He fucking hates it. He has no money for anything. Mum and Mark haven’t officially divorced and it fucked up the numbers when it was time to apply for his student loan, making it look like his household has more money than it actually has, and so he’d got, like, two thirds of the amount for maintenance, forty five quid a week to live once you take out the halls fees.

He hates it all. Having a thousand-pound debt with a fucking timer on it. All of his birthday money and every pence he can spare going to his savings and not even making a decent dent on the debt.

“Louis,” Harry says, sudden, making him jump three fucking feet into the air.

Ok, pity party over. 

“Hm?” Louis prompts. 

“I was talking to the girls earlier,” he starts, “They told me about Liam and Lilly.”

Louis brow wrinkles, “What?”

“They told me what happened,” Harry continues, cryptic.

Louis is not in the fucking mood for Harry’s _smoke and mirrors_ bullshit today, fuck. “What are you talking about?”

Harry looks at him, considering, “You know, about Freshers Week.”

“No, Harold, I don’t fucking know, that’s why I asked,” he snaps, “ _God_ , are you thick, or something?”

Louis regrets it even as the words are leaving his mouth. 

Harry’s expression hardens, and he makes to get up, picking up his empty plate. Louis’ hand flies to his arm, “I’m sorry,” he pleads, running his thumb over the bone, “I’m sorry. It’s been a long fucking day, and I took it out on you. You’re not thick.”

“I’m not,” Harry agrees, and doesn’t acknowledge the rest of it. He gets up anyway, dislodging Louis’ hand from his forearm, and dumps his plate on the sink on his way out the door.

Louis touches his forehead to the tabletop with a groan. _Stupid_ , he thinks as he smacks it against the formica, hard. _Stupid_.

*

On Friday he spends the whole day with an ear out for signs of Harry, but it’s only by eight that Louis even hears his voice, laughing at something as he goes down the stairs. Louis leaps from his chair, books forgotten, and opens the door to Harry stood in front of his own door, rooting for his room key.

“Hey,” Louis bites his lip, running his toes on the carpet. He’s shit at apologising, “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

Harry turns to look at him, “Hold on,” he says, and goes inside his bedroom.

Louis leans on his doorjamb, picking at a hangnail, until Harry reemerges, towel slung over his shoulder and toiletry bag in hand.

“I wanted to apologise for yesterday, again,” he starts, forces himself to hold Harry’s gaze, “I was a proper prick, and I don’t want us to-” he cuts himself off, “Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

Harry holds his gaze for a moment, “Well, you _were_ a prick, we can agree on that,” he sighs, cracks his neck, “But it’s– whatever,” he looks down at him again, “There is, actually, something I want you to do.”

“Sure,” Louis nods, “Just name it.”

“I’m going out with the girls,” he says, “We’re going to pregame at the International Society and then everyone’s heading out to this club, Copacabana? It’s like, latin, you know, salsa and reggaeton. I want you to come with.”

“Harry–”

“I want you to come out with us,” Harry talks over him, “And I want you to leave your preconceived notions about them inside the flat. That’s how you can make up to me.”

“I was going to say, I don’t think I’d be welcome,” Louis scratches his neck, “I’d go, but I don’t think me being there will, like, add to their overall enjoyment of the night.”

“You’re wrong,” Harry shakes his head, “They’ve got nothing against you.”

Well, then, imagine if they did.

“Fine,” Louis sighs, “Only ‘cos I don’t want you to be mad at me.”

Harry flicks him on the nose as he heads for the bathroom, which Louis takes as a good sign.

*

Copacabana is the kind of place where Liam and Niall end a night out if they haven’t had much luck with the ladies, and judging by their stories, it sounds super straight. Louis can’t wait. He is going to be so comfortable and have so much fun. Just so much fun.

He heads out to uni early, in case the girls are wearing heels and want to share a taxi. Five seats and six people, it’s not hard to figure out Louis would be the one left out anyway, so he spares everyone of the awkwardness.

Drinks at the International Society only make it more obvious how worldly Louis  _isn’t_. There’s a life lesson in there somewhere, being the odd one out for once, instead of the international students, and everyone he talks to asks him how did he hear about the party, and when he says, _my flatmate Huda_ , at least five people light up in recognition, and he’s so surprised that Huda leaves the flat for anything other than classes that, really, he’s a bit ashamed of how uninformed he is about her religion.

There’s a tray of drinks being passed around and, _free_ being the magic word, Louis tries _Caipirinha_ from Brazil and _Amarula_ from South Africa and _Shochu_ from Japan, and holds off on any more liquor before he sees how that particular combination of spirits will settle in his stomach. Wouldn’t do to sick up on someone’s shoes when he’s trying to make nice with his flatmates, would it?

The rest of Huda’s entourage arrives a good hour after him, a bunch of misplaced brits being led by her, and Louis hurries to join the pack, secretly pleased at some familiarity.

“Hey,” Harry lights up when he sees him, “Thought you had flaked out on us.”

“Never,” Louis smiles his award-winning smile, turns to the girls, “Y’alright, loves?”

Huda barely gets out a “Hi, Louis,” before she’s setting off to greet her society friends, which Louis totally understands and isn’t bothered by at all. The other three greet him more enthusiastically than they’ve done in a long time, but Louis rather suspects that has to do with the smell of beer wafting from the four of them.

They were talking about bake off on the way here, apparently, and Louis joins the discussion, offering his opinions in a very polite, non-aggressive way, even though Abby is talking _utter shit_ , and who doesn’t like Mel and Sue? What is wrong with her?

Anne tells her off for her Mel&Sue hate, climbing to the top of Louis’ rank of female flatmates just as Harry says, “You know, I used to be a-”

“Baker,” Louis and Lily complete at the same time, and she laughs with him as Abby says, “You’ve told us already, Harry. Like, three times,” and Harry looks absolutely unbothered at being the butt of the joke and starts describing all of the delicacies his workplace produced. They all groan and Louis is, _maybe_ , having an okay time, when Lily pulls him to the side.

“Listen, Louis,” she starts, shifting her weight to the other heel, and Louis is no giant but Lily is, really, _travel sized_ , “Harry told us, he thinks you don’t know what happened between me and Liam.”

 _This_ again. “What did he do,” Lord above, please don’t let it be that Louis has been friends with a sex offender or some shit, “Harry mentioned something about Freshers Week? But he wouldn’t tell me anything else. What did he do?”

“Well, you know how me and Liam shagged the whole of Freshers Week, right?” she starts, and _what the fuck. What the fuck._ Something must show on his face, because she stops, says, “Really? You didn’t even know that we shagged? I don’t believe you. Men love to brag about sex and he’s your mate. ”

“I didn’t,” Louis shakes his head, “Liam hasn’t told me anything. When did this happen? You weren’t, like, flirting and touching in front of us, though. I would’ve noticed.”

“We weren’t,” she confirms, “We’d just sneak into each other’s rooms after everyone was in bed and accounted for. Huda was the only one that noticed straight away, and only because she doesn’t drink, I reckon. Fuck, I can’t believe you didn’t know. What did you think I was mad for?”

“The flat being a mess? Vomming in the bathtub?” he shrugs, “It was right round the time I told everyone I was gay, too.”

“ _Shite_ ,” she closes her eyes in a grimace, “We’re not– We didn’t have a problem, Louis. We didn’t care that you’re gay.”

Louis would quite like to know, what is it with people telling him they don’t mind, as if Louis needs their permission to be gay around them. Liam and Niall do it too, and he thought it was just other men who did this, but it’s probably more of a straight people thing, innit.

“What happened, then?” he wants to steer the conversation away from himself, “I mean, if it was just a cheeky shag, like, you weren’t the only ones that were doing it. What made you mad?”

“Right,” she takes in a deep breath, “So, one of them times, the last one, we were both out of condoms.”

They should’ve asked him. He still has all of the condoms they got in Freshers Week, stuffed in the back of a drawer. “And I’m guessing you didn’t call it a night and just cuddled.”

“We didn’t,” she agrees, “And, like, I know it was bad, right, that we did it, but I was on the pill so I wasn’t really worried, you know? I know I should’ve been, could’ve got the clap or some shit, but anyway. I went to sleep – and let me add first, that Liam already knew I was on the pill, alright. He knew.”

Louis nods, urging her to go on.

“So the next day I wake up, you know, fucking hungover, massive headache and shit, and I haven’t even got up when someone knocks on me door, and it’s Liam. And he’s got, like, a water bottle, and he’s asking me if I’m feeling okay and shit, all concerned, like,” she rolls her eyes, “And I’m thinking like, _how sweet_ , you know, even though we’d shagged before and he’d just fucked off to his room after it, and then he pulls out of his trousers, a fucking morning after pill.”

She pauses like that’s supposed to be enough explanation, but Louis is a stranger to the ways of contraceptives, and he tells her so.

“Right, you know the morning after pill is this, like, it’s just one pill that you take after sex if you think you might get pregnant,” she waits for Louis’ nod, “Thing is, I was already on the pill, you know, the one that you take once a day for the whole month, and I didn’t need another pill. I didn’t need it. It’s fucking packed with hormones, you know, ‘cos it has to do the same job as the twenty eight ones in the regular pill. It’s fucking bad for you, you know? And Liam knew I was already on the pill, but I guess he didn’t trust me or whatever, and he insisted and insisted, and I should’ve said I wasn’t fucking taking it, but I was just so hungover and so surprised, I just went and fucking swallowed it so he’d leave me alone.”

Louis grimaces, “Did you get ill?”

“Fucking ill, man. Like, imagine how much hormone in me with both pills. And I didn’t even know if they could, like, cancel each other out and I’d get pregnant, I don’t know, my mind was flying. It was a nightmare.”

“What did he say when you confronted him about it?” at her hesitation, Louis adds, “You did confront him, right?”

“What was the point? He’d already gone in bare and he’d come and he’d got the pill and now he was worry-free, no side effects for him, and what would I even say? That I was offended he thought I’d lie about the pill to trap him with a baby or some shit? Or that I wasn’t competent enough to take it right? That it’s my body and he had no fucking right to make me take a medicine I didn’t want to? He already knows that, Louis. Of course he fucking knows, and he doesn’t care, he just wanted to clear his conscience.” She huffs, “At first I thought, you know, you lot were all the same, but it’s even worse ‘cos he didn’t even tell you, he knew it was fucked up. He knew it.”

“ _Christ,_ ” Louis runs a hand down his face. All this shit going on under the same roof as his and he had no fucking clue. “Look, Lily, obviously he’s in the wrong, but I’m gonna have to play devil’s advocate here and ask, are you sure he really understands what this pill does to you? ‘Cos, like, I only had a vague idea that you take it the morning after if your condom breaks or some shit, and I know I’m gay but, really, I don’t think straight men know that much more than me, love. You really should tell him why you’re mad.”

“That’s no excuse,” she shakes her head, “Every time you have sex, you assume a risk, right, you _know_ there’s always a risk no matter how small, and Liam has no right to my body. Even if we shagged, he had no right to demand I took the pill. Even if it had, like, zero side-effects, I’d told him I was already on the pill, and it’s still _my body_ , you know? And anyway, like, what would be the point of telling him off after? I’d already taken the fucking pill, and Liam would carry on not giving a fuck.”

“But you’re carrying this with you. It obviously still bothers you, and he’s just, like, happily oblivious. It’s not fair on both of you. You’ll never hear an apology if he doesn’t even know he’s fucked up, and I think it’d do you good to have a go on him, tell him off proper.”

“Ok, first of all, it’s not my responsibility to educate Liam on a woman’s right to her body, and second, it’s not even like I _care_ about him enough to want to mend fences, you know? At the end of the day he’s just a shag that ended badly. Come June we’ll move out and I won’t ever have to look at his face again.”

“I should do it, then,” Louis realises, eyes bulging out, “I’ll smack the fuckboy out of him.”

“Oh, god, not you too,” she sighs, “Listen, Louis, it’s not that bad that he needs, like, an _intervention_ , okay? At least not while we’re all still living together. You’re overestimating his level of empathy, ‘cos I’d bet my fucking tuition that if anyone tried to explain why he’s wrong he’d just puff out like a self-righteous peacock. So leave it, okay? Don’t be one of them guys that go over the woman ‘cos they always think they know better. When I say leave it, I mean _leave it_ , ok?”

Louis deflates, “Fine.”

“Glad to know you’re not in the arsehole league, then,” she links her arm through his and starts to lead him to where the others have moved on, “Harry was right about you.”

*

It’s almost midnight when they finally leave the International Society, and Louis is more than pleasantly buzzed. 

Sloppy, really, if they're going into specifics. 

He's never been one for spirits other than the odd shot glass on a night out, and tonight he's drank _a lot_ of distilled alcohol, alright, and he can't pronounce the name of any of them, but they're _strong_. Someday Louis will be able to refuse free alcohol, but today is not the day.

Huda and the rest of the members of the society that are sober wait with them in the bus shelter to make sure they get the right bus and don't end up in, like, Blackpool.

Niall once told him about a night out that started with a Kings of Leon concert and ended in a chip shop in Blackpool, but Louis thinks they're not so pissed that they're going to end up in another fucking city. He's like, fairly sure.

There's so many of them heading to Copacabana that they fill over half of the upper floor of the double decker, _despacito_ playing off of someone's phone as they laugh and sing along and just generally inconvenience every other passenger. Louis can't bring himself to feel guilty, not when he's this drunk, and anyway, he's not the one making the noise. He's quite well behaved, sat in the aisle seat with Harry at the window, looking over at the bench in front of them where Anne has laid down and doesn't look particularly inclined to get up. K.O this early in the evening - _amateur,_ Louis thinks, and leans over the seat and pokes her in the cheek, just because.

Abby leaves her post by Lily's side and slides into his spot, leaving him bent over the seat and not quite sure how to proceed.

He sits on her lap, his knees trapped between hers and the seat in front of them, and she stops her enthusiastic rant to say, “Fuck, no, you're heavy and I'm wearing heels," shoving him over so that he ends up sat on Harry's knees before going back to talking a mile a minute, only half of her words intelligible enough to him – which is a lot, considering that she's both drunk _and_ a Geordie. 

He looks down at Harry, nodding attentively even if he's just as drunk as Louis, and probably understanding as many words. He's still supposedly engrossed on Abby's critique of the new Geordie Shore cast as he starts to jiggle his leg and effectively bounce Louis on his knees, the hand that was tapping out a rhythm against the glass coming down to clutch at his hips to the rhythm of _quiero desnudarte a besos despacito_. It’s probably a bit undignified, not that Louis cares.

*

Copacabana is - well, it’s _shit_ , even as he makes a valiant attempt at having a good time, buying an overpriced bottle of Desperados even though he thinks mixing beer with tequila is the worst fucking idea, and the _songs_ , like, it sounds like they’re all by Pitbull and everything is just so _straight_ Louis can feel every gay cell in his body rejecting it. 

 _Harry_ looks like he’s having the time of his life, gyrating his little booty to the beat, and it’s dark enough that no one will notice if Louis looks a bit, right? ‘Cos it’s quite a lovely bum, bit skinny but he sure can shake it. 

Anne, who has come back to the living after a bit of vomming inside a bin in Chinatown, sidles up to him at the edge of the dance floor.

“This party’s a bust,” she shouts over the noise, and Louis sticks to nodding his head in agreement, because he promised he’d be good, “I want sushi.”

“ _Sushi_?” He turns to her, because, look, there are limits to what he can stand, ok, “Sushi’s shit, alright, it’s shit but everyone eats it ‘cos it’s _trendy_.”

She swivels to look at him, craning her head back, a hand between them, “You say that again to my face.”

He turns and squares up to her, trying and failing to keep a straight face, “I _said,_  sushi’s shit, d’you want me to say it again?” Her eyes narrow dangerously, “Yeah, what are you gonna do about it, pal?”

“I will fight you, Louis,” she threatens as Abby approaches them, “I will fucking fight you– Listen to this, Abby, Louis has just said we only like sushi ‘cos it’s _trendy_.”

“Oh, god, not you too,” Louis laughs as she turns dangerous eyes on him, “You know, I kinda liked you, Abby, can’t say I’m not disappointed.”

“Don’t make me shove a temaki up your arse, Tomlinson,” she says, fierce, “Your sushi hate’s not gonna fucking fly ‘round here.”

“What’s going on?” Lilly joins the conversation, bit wobbly on the knees. There’s sweat running down her face and she sounds like she’s just sprinted to them. Quite the exercise, salsa.

“Louis is hating on sushi,” Abby tells on him, and Lily’s reaction is less aggressive but much more dangerous.

She smiles, angelic, and says, “Let’s take him for a late night hot roll, then?”

“ _No_ ,” Louis takes a step back, “No, you fucking won’t. _No_.”

*

“This is stupid,” Louis complains as they go down Portland Street, “Where are we even gonna find sushi at,” he looks down at his phone, “two fifteen?”

“We know a place round the back of Oxford Road station,” Abby says, arm linked through his, partly to make sure he doesn’t escape and partly to help support herself on her heels as they walk.

“Harry, why are you going along with this?” Louis cries.

“Could do with some sashimi right now, actually,” he says from a few paces ahead, arm linked through Lily’s, her own personal support, “And apparently we get a discount ‘cause Anne’s shagging the manager.”

“Fuck off,” Anne calls from besides them, head bent down to her phone. She’s chosen to not wear heels, which Louis thinks is wise, “It was _once_ and he’s proper fit, okay.”

“Was it in the kitchen?” Louis calls, “Tell me it was in the kitchen.”

She answers by flipping him off, and goes back to texting.

*

“I’ve got another idea,” Lily starts, once they've made a turn on Oxford Street and then onto Whitworth street, “Louis, Harry’s told us you’re proper good at pool, eh?”

He and Harry exchange a look over the top of her head, “I’m alright, yeah.”

“Remember that place with the pool tables we went to, girlies? Wasn’t it round here?”

“Oh, yeah, I remember,” Anne says, “It’s like, round the other corner. They’re open twenty four hours, though, shouldn’t we get sushi first?” 

 _Christ_ , open twenty four hours, what kind of place is that?

“No, if we go after three there’ll be just the creeps, innit,” Abby declares, steering the group in the opposite direction, “C’mon, I wanna see him playing too.”

If Louis’ life was a movie, the Kill Bill sirens would be going off right around now, he reckons, “No, girls, I’m quite pissed, I’ll just make a tit of myself.”

“That’ll be fun to watch, too,” Abby smirks, and there’s that.

*

With google maps helping refresh their memory, they drag him to this period building right in front of the tracks, yellowed in neglect. There’s a little door off the main entrance over which a sign says, _Rainbow Snooker_ , and sure enough, _open 24 hours_ , and Louis’ brain sings a little song that goes _fuckity fuck_ even as they’re showing IDs to the security guard just inside and going down this long, poorly lit hallway towards the back of the building. It opens into an atrium that is equally poorly lit, low-hanging tubular halogens over each pool table being all it has to show for lighting. 

It’s not bustling but it’s not empty either, all but two tables occupied, and as they make their way to the token machine, Louis notes that they are _definitely_ the youngest patrons, the clientele consisting mostly of middle aged men with beer guts. They couldn’t stand out more if they tried.

It’s kind of depressing really, but he supposes any place that sells alcohol and is open round the clock is bound to look depressing at some point into the night. It looks like the kind of place where the girls would be mistaken for prostitutes. 

“Nice joint,” he comments, low at Abby’s ear, “How the fuck did you three end up here before?”

“It’s open twenty four hours and it sells alcohol ‘till five,” she shrugs, “Not our finest night, I’ll give you that, but it wasn’t just the three of us girls. We’d never go in a place like this alone.”

Louis nods, accepting the argument. Pretty young things like them have a lot to worry about in a place like this, but getting alcohol isn’t one of them. Back in Donny, not even Louis’ most winning smile could get the lady in the kebab shop to sell him beer after hours.

He nips to the loo, and when he comes back, they’ve commandeered a table near the entrance and the balls are racked and set.

“I’ve never played snooker before,” he knows the rules, but even having all the solids and stripes they need for a round of eight-ball at Squirrel’s is a luxury, let alone having a table set with all the reds they need for snooker. He’s decidedly more excited about a game when he reaches for a cue and asks them, “Who am I battling today?”

“Oh, we just want to watch,” Lily tells him, leaning on the wall with a bottle of Heineken.

“Yeah but I can’t play against myself, innit.”

“I’ll do it,” Harry reaches for the other cue.

“Acquiring a taste for having your arse handed over, are you?” Louis leans on the table, “You don’t even know how to play snooker, though. So easy to beat, it’s boring.”

“I do know how to play snooker,” Harry makes a face at him, “Did some googling after last week.”

“Well, since you did some googling,” Louis makes a face back, just because. “I’ll be a doll and break for us, then.”

The cue is heavier than what he’s used to, so his break is not exactly his _magnum opus_ , but it gets the job done. Clean off the last red on the right, two rails, stops just past the blue. It’s a shot Louis could make do with, but no amount of googling will get Harry off this one. He bends to aim for the sole red in the left, terrible choice, 'cos even if he makes the shot it’ll leave no way to pocket a colour left, and he’ll lose his turn.

“Oi,” Abby propels herself off the wall, saddles up to them, “Why don’t you go for the blue, Harry? It’s right in your face.”

“He has to go for a red ball now, then a coloured after,” Louis explains, “It alternates; sink a red, sink a colour.”

“But there’s more reds than coloured ones.”

“The coloured go back to the table after you pocket them.”

“How do we know it’s over, then, if the balls keep coming back?” Anne asks, coming closer.

“You can sink the colours for real after you sink the last red,” he waits until Harry shoots his shot, hitting the red but not pocketing it, the cue ball ricocheting into a easy position for him, “And then who has the most points wins.”

“Points?” Lily interjects from the wall, “ _Boo_ , boring!”

Louis rounds the table, pulling his trousers up before bending down into position and looking to the side where Lily is, instead of at the table, “It’s not _boring_ ,” he says, and holds her gaze as he shoots.

Their _oh my gods_ and _holy shits_ tell him he made the shot, and he grins as Lily’s jaw drops open and she, too, abandons the wall to perch at the side of the table.

“You weren’t even looking,” Abby cries, “Holy shit, you’re _good_.”

“Told yous,” Harry says, imitating her Geordie accent, dimples coming full force in his close-mouthed grin when he realises he’s made them all laugh.

It’s kind of adorable, really.

He bends and sinks the black, then another red, then the black again, and he could run the table like this, really, but it’s Friday night and it’s not fun when it’s too easy. He shoots straight into the reds, scattering them everywhere, making it so very easy for Harry’s turn.

The look he gets tells him Harry knows he scratched on purpose, and Harry’s biting down a smile when he bends to take his shot.

He pockets it, earning a chorus of _yeahs_ from the girls, and they’re being too loud, probably, Louis scanning the salon to see if anyone is glaring at them.

There’s a man, playing alone two tables over, who’s stopped shooting to look at them. He doesn’t seem annoyed – if anything, Louis would guess it’s _lust_ he sees, but he can’t tell for whom, exactly.

He looks away, a bit unsettled, and finds Harry bent down but watching him, waiting for Louis to look at him again before he shoots.

He sinks the blue, and Louis smiles at him, a _well done_. Louis circles the table while Harry’s getting ready for his next shot, positions himself where he can look at the other tables without being too obvious about it. Being flamboyant in _alpha male_ -ridden places like this one comes with its own set of issues. Louis has learned to recognise a situation that’s about to get messy before it actually does, learned to sense when he’s not being just stared at, but made a target. _Prey_. 

When Harry scratches at the next coloured and pushes the cue ball in perfect alignment with the brown and the lefthand corner pocket, Louis turns to the girls and asks, “Anyone wants to try sinking that? It’s an easy one.”

Lily squeals her assent, and Louis passes her the cue and goes to stand by Harry's side, putting him between Louis and the rest of the tables, giving him the privacy to lean in and whisper, “Don’t look now, but the blue suit in the third table won’t stop fucking staring, and I don’t think it’s ‘cos he wants to pull.”

Harry makes no move to look, bless him, and they separate to different ends of the table when Lily shoots and somehow manages to pocket the cue ball instead. Louis bends to retrieve the ball and redo the shot, Harry grabs her empty bottle and raises it over towards the bar as if trying to flag a fucking waiter or something, but it does the job and allows him the cover to have a good look at the other patrons. Smoother than Louis would’ve given him credit for, really.

Louis relaxes minutely, knowing he’s not the only one keeping an eye on the situation. He sinks the corner red and black, diamond red and black, stops counting the points at the eighth red because it’s fucking obvious he’s going to win, and just lets himself enjoy the luxury of a fully equipped billiards table covered in green felt that feels lush to the touch instead of threadbare, a pool cue that’s not a thousand years old and covered in scratches. 

He’s about to run the table when he sees Harry tense in his peripheral vision, and he looks up to see the man in the blue suit approaching them, beer in hand and chalk in the other. His heart starts beating faster, even as the light from the tubulars above their table finally reaches him, and he doesn’t quite look like he’s about to go all homophobic alpha on them.

“Evening, lads. _Ladies,_ ” he smiles, charming, “Couldn’t help but notice your game,” he directs it at Louis, “You’re the first half-decent player that’s walked into this shitehole all evening.”

“Cheers,” Louis says, clipped but not aggressive. The stranger doesn’t want to humiliate them or beat them up, that much is clear, but what _does_ he want?

“Any chance I can interest you in a game?”

“Huh,” they’re being watched by the other four, and a quick look around the table doesn’t really tell him anything, “We’ve got to go in a bit, actually. Sorry.”

“Ah, shame,” Blue Suit raps his knuckles on the edge of the table, “I was going to buy you lot a round of pints, even.”

The change in mood is palpable. Abby instantly perks up at the word _pint_ , Lily staring at him while nodding her head like one of those bobblehead dolls you see in every lorry driver’s dashboard.

Thing is, a bad break and snooker can last way more than the time it takes to drink a pint, “Tell you what,” he starts, “If you want to play something more fast-paced, I’m up for it.”

“Done,” he opens his arms, “I just need a good game to save this shite night. Nine-ball good to you?”

“Sure,” Louis grins. Nine-ball was a house favourite in Anthony’s pub. Liam hates playing it because once Louis’ inning starts, it’s game over for him, “Lag for break?”

*

Once they’ve switched balls and Blue Suit has ordered six pints at the bar, Louis purposefully fucks up the lag. He likes to get a feel on his opponent’s skill before going in for the kill, form a strategy. It’s one of his favourite parts of shooting pool, the strategy. Bulldozing his way into a victory has lost its charm years ago.

Not to mention he has, literally, half his flat watching him. 

He only takes a few sips of his pint. It’s showtime, and winning is important–  _actually_ winning, not winning against Harry who barely knows which end of the cue he’s supposed to shoot with. 

Blue suit breaks from the left and pockets the one from the get-go, which tells him two things: If push comes to shove, Louis’ trump card is forcing him to shoot right-bound, and, most importantly, this is _not_ Blue Suit’s first rodeo. Nothing to worry about yet, ‘cause it’s not like Louis even remembers the last time he failed to pocket a ball at break, but enough to get his blood pumping.

The nine ball ends up snug against the rail, so they’ll probably have to work their way up to it. Blue Suit sinks the two and the three, but he’s got a poor shot on the four. He wants to hit the rail on bended but he’s elevating too much, and sure enough, he shoots and scratches. The girls provide the bonafide audience’s _oohhhs_ and _ahhhs_ and Harry’s watching him like a fucking hawk as he moves to take his shot, and it is time to win it, Tommo style.

He sinks the four with a bank shot and proceeds to run the table in the time it takes Harry to explain the rules of nine-ball to the girls. It’s a simple game, the nine balls have to be hit in numerical order, and pocketing the nine ends the game, so there isn’t really much to explain, but Louis shoots the nine in the side pocket before Harry’s finished.

Blue Suit, if anything, looks _happy_ at being defeated. The thrill of the challenge, he supposes.

It’s Anne who suggests, “Best of three?”

Then it’s Harry who sing-songs, “Good luck huug,” while Blue Suit’s busy reracking, which, _what_. He wraps himself around a slightly bewildered Louis like a fucking octopus, and whispers, so low Louis almost misses it, “ _Lose it._ ”

Louis shows no outward reaction because it’s clearly what he’s supposed to do, and doesn’t even question it. The ultimate goal is to mend fences with Harry, after all.

Since the last winner gets to break, Louis prepares to take his shot. He doesn’t really think Blue Suit will appreciate having the game handed to him, so he shoots a standard break that pockets the two and sends the rest of the balls scattering across the green, and assesses the situation. Making good pool look bad is a fine art but Louis is _Leonardo_ fucking _da Vinci_ , and if Harry wants him to lose on purpose, he is going to _Monalisa_ the shit out of this table. 

He sinks the one, the three and the four. They’re so conveniently placed Louis wouldn’t really do a convincing enough job of scratching them, and most importantly, it clears the path for him to pocket the five with a shot that sends the cue ball on a bend, an ‘unfortunate side effect’ that tucks it, fucking cozy, behind the eight. 

Blue Suit celebrates Louis’ ‘mistake’ and for a second he’s eighteen again, playing against his teacher and missing shots on purpose just so he can drag the game out.

Louis goes for a bank shot that touches the six, pockets nothing and hands the lie on a silver fucking plater to his opponent. He makes a point of projecting a frustrated grimace even as he thinks, _this_ right here is what a lemonade stroke is made of, pal. Fucking _get it_. 

He finds Harry’s gaze and holds it, even as Blue Suit is running the table like it’s his lucky day.

The third game goes much like the second, except it’s Blue Suit who breaks and scratches, and Louis could run the table so very easily but he doesn’t, ‘cause Harry smirking at him like _that_ is thrill enough. 

What he does instead is sink the six with a flying cue ball ‘cos losing doesn’t mean he can’t show off a little, and then proceed to ricochet the cue ball off the seven and into the nine, sending it clean towards the corner pocket, so fucking slow that the girls start chanting _go go go_. It stops less than three inches from the pocket ‘cos Louis didn’t hit it hard enough and _fuck_ he’s good. He hides the smile he can’t quite bite down behind his hands as they all groan, _so close_ , and really it’s quite easy for Blue Suit to win after that one, innit?

Harry ‘consoles’ him by throwing an arm around his shoulders and pulling him in. “You got lucky,” he tells Blue Suit.

“I’ll beat him again if you like, eh? Show you who’s lucky,” he pulls a note from his pocket and slaps it on the rail, “But it’s time to get off the kiddie table.”

Louis’ eyes bulge out as he sees the crisp fifty quid note on the table. Besides him the girls go _Ohh_ and fuck, are they in on it, too?

“I’ll do you one better,” Harry fires back, and steps away from Louis to pull out his wallet and fish out _five_ twenty pound notes, “Since we’re not at the kiddie table anymore.”

Louis recovers enough to say, “ _No,_ ” that’s- _fuck_ , he will _not_ risk losing Harry’s fucking money, he’s in enough debt as it is, “Harry, _no_.”

“Ahh,” Blue Suit fake pouts, even as he’s already reaching into his suit pocket for more, “Seems like your boyfriend’s got them jitters, _Harry_.”

Harry turns to him, “I trust you,” he cups Louis’ cheeks and forces them to make eye contact, “I know you can win, ok? I trust you.” 

And _fuck_ , this is not a joke anymore, Harry’s got to understand there’s a difference between fucking around and betting actual fucking money, _god. One hundred fucking pounds._ “I’m not d-”

Harry kisses him.

Harry really, actually, _literally_ shuts him up with a kiss, never mind that they’re surrounded by straight white men, he pulls Louis in and presses their lips together, fierce, and it’s over as abruptly as it’s started and Louis is left fucking _reeling_.

Harry turns around and reaches for the cash, two fifty pound notes from Blue Suit and five twenties from himself, and arranges them neatly by the corner of the rail, under a piece of chalk. 

 _Fuck_.

*

Needless to say, Louis doesn’t miss any more shots on purpose.

He lags it clean and breaks it clean and runs the table fucking spotless, tension coiled inside him like a vice. Blue Suit doesn’t even touch the cue ball until Louis scratches, two balls into the second game. He keeps himself from panicking only through sheer force of will and a shot glass that Abby has procured god knows from where. Harry’s hand is a comforting weight at the nape of his neck when Louis leaves the table feeling like he might throw up.

He doesn’t look at Harry, _can’t_ look at Harry. He analyses Blue Suit’s shots with the kind of mental clarity that only comes from being fucking desperate, because here’s the thing about nine-ball – it’s the easiest game to win if you’re playing a rookie, and the hardest if you’re going against a pro. And if you’re evenly matched, so is the score. 

Blue Suit’s not as good as him, alright, he’s got some good trick shots but he’s inconsistent, and he runs the second game but starts the third by failing to pocket a ball right at the break, passing control of the table back to Louis. That’s all he needs, really, just _one_ fuck up from Blue Suit and he steps back into the table and _doesn’t fucking leave_.

There are still six other balls at the table when he pockets the nine in a double shot with the two, and the girls are celebrating and Louis looks up to see that half the salon has stopped playing to watch their game, and his relief lasts up until the point that Blue Suits pulls out another two hundred quid and says, “Double or nothing, eh?” 

The men around them cheer, and Louis is not fucking doing it ‘cause even Harry’s looking a bit worried, but when he looks Blue Suit in the eye, there it is again. 

There it is, _the look_ , this odd fucking mixture of lust and greed that’d creeped him out, and all of a sudden Louis can see what Harry saw first –  _gambler._

He reracks the balls.

*

He sits at their booth in the dingy Japanese restaurant that is still too fucking crowded for almost four in the morning, sanctuary for a gaggle of mismatched drunks that have nowhere to go when the club lights come on.

He’s oblivious to the conversation, too aware of the four fucking hundred quid burning a hole in his pocket. 

 _Fuck_ , he’s going to be so pissed if this turns out to be an alcohol-poisoning-induced hallucination or something.

“Y’alright?” Harry asks from besides him, talking round a mouthful. He’s declared his intention of using part of his share of the money to splurge on ‘a whole fucking salmon’s worth of sashimi’, and he’s following through, despite Louis’ horrified gasp at learning what is exactly that sashimi consists of.

Raw fucking fish and they have the nerve to call it a dish? Give him a break. 

“Yeah, no, I’m fine,” Louis runs his hands down his face, “Still too full of adrenaline, I guess.”

“Lucky you I know _just_ what you need to unwind,” Anne says, sat across the table with a giant temaki in front of her.

The three girls turn to him with their scheming little faces on. Louis doesn’t ask what is it that they’re planning on the suspicion that he won’t have a say in the matter, anyway.

“Waiter, bring on the sake!” Lily announces, despite it being a self-service restaurant with approximately zero waiting staff. 

*

“Listen yous, I had the best night ever,” Abby hiccups into Harry’s shoulder.

The other two girls hum their assent as the five of them very slowly, very carefully finish climbing the steps to their floor. The taxi back to halls was a wild fucking ride, their driver greeting them with the warning that sicking up inside the black cab incurred a fee of thirty pounds, that’s how sober they are.

Getting drunk and sobering up and then getting drunk again is going to result in a wonderful hangover, Louis can already see. That’s a problem for Day Louis, though, because Night Louis is buzzing off the walls with nervous energy that the sake didn’t quite manage to fix. It’s already day, technically, but it doesn’t count ‘cos the sun only rises at eight fucking thirty in the winter like a fucking wanker.

They spill into the flat all at once, knocking down the umbrella stand. Anne, true to her brand, decides to stay exactly where she fell, never mind that she’s still half-in, half-out of the flat. Lily starts to crawl up the stairs to the girls’ rooms, one heel in each hand. Only Abby seems to be holding down her alcohol somewhat successfully, must be them Geordie genes or summat. Louis bets there’s a requirement for moving into Newcastle of, like, a minimum threshold of alcohol one can drink before being sent to A&E. _You’re a lightweight, luv? No, can’t move here. Go back to Essex._

Louis points down to Anne and orders the other two, “Handle it,” before going after Lily, who hasn’t even reached the first landing yet. He helps her up the rest of the stairs, one hand to the bannister because he’s far from steady on his feet himself, and says, “Picked you ‘cos you’re the shortest,” he tells her as they reach the second floor, “Anne’s too tall for me to carry, but don’t tell her I said that.”

“Shhhhh, don’t be loud,” Lily stage whispers, very loud indeed, “It’s time for the fudger.”

“Time for the _what?_ ” Louis frowns as he deposits her against her door, “Where’s your key?”

“The _fudger_ ,” she insists, offering her handbag and slowly slipping down until she’s sitting on the floor, “You know, ‘cos the sun’s–” there’s another crash downstairs, “ _Louis!_ ” She admonishes.

“It wasn’t _me!”_ He protests, rooting through the tiny handbag in search of her room key, “And what the fuck’s a fudger, anyway?”

“She means _fajr,” s_ ays a voice from behind him, making him jump, “First prayer of the day,” Huda continues, leaning on her bedroom door, “Don’t worry, Lils, the sun doesn't rise for another hour - and you guys are late, huh? Or should I say early?”

She’s wearing a robe over her pyjamas, a fleece blanket wrapped around her and serving as a makeshift hijab. She looks a bit like E.T. all wrapped like that, the blanket’s white even, but he refrains from saying that out loud ‘cos even the alcohol hasn’t quite managed to wipe out _all_ his instinct of self-preservation.

“We had the best night _ever_ , love,” Lily starts, still firmly planted outside her door, “We went to Copacabana but it was shit and we left and we watched Louis beat this guy out of, like, a thousand million pounds, and then we got sushi.”

Louis goes red to the root of his hair as Huda turns to him, eyebrow high on her forehead, “I didn’t beat anyone– no violence,” he blurts out, eloquent, “And it wasn’t a thousand million pounds.”

“Not my business, don’t need to know,” Huda makes a dismissive hand gesture, “Let me get dressed and I’ll help you – where are the other two, by the way? Did you lose them?”

“They’re downstairs with Harry, vomming in the loo, probably,” Louis answers, at last emerging victorious, key in hand, “Found it!” he announces, but Huda’s already closed her door.

Lily’s laughing at him, “Why are you getting nervous around _Huda_?” She asks even as Louis opens her door and she tumbles inside, “She’s a petal.”

“She’s fucking scary, is what she is,” Louis mumbles as he more or less carries her to her bed. He grabs her paper bin from under the desk and puts it by her head, just in case. “Right,” he claps his hands, “If you can’t take off that kit of yours, Huda will help you. I’m gonna get you some water.”

Out in the hall, he can hear Abby’s complaints approaching him, so it seems they’ve finally got her on the stairs. He turns the other way and heads to the kitchen, banging his hip in the corner of the counter as he passes. “Fucking _ow_ ,” he pouts, rubbing the sore spot with one hand as the other reaches for a glass.

He’s filling it up when Harry spills into the kitchen, looking a bit green and a lot disheveled, “Don’t even think about vomming in the kitchen sink,” he threatens.

“I’m not gonna,” Harry frowns at him, “Give us that water.”

Louis rolls his eyes even as he passes the glass over. Niall keeps ibuprofen here in the kitchen, if Louis could just remember– “Niall!”

“Harry,” he corrects, nursing his glass of water.

“No, listen, Harry, _listen_ ,” Louis rounds on him, giddy, “St. Patrick’s – We should buy the plane tickets to St. Patrick’s, like, _now_ , or they’ll turn a million pounds.”

Harry lights up, “You’re going? Niall thought you weren’t going to go.”

“I’m going _now_ that I’m two hundred pounds richer!”

“Three hundred,” Harry corrects.

Louis rolls his eyes, "Listen, Harry, I know you’re not, like, a maths kinda bloke,” he hiccups, “So trust me, okay, fifty percent of four hundred is two hundred.”

Harry swipes at him with his leg, a poor attempt at a kick, “Twenty five,” he says, “The stakehorse gets twenty five percent of the pot. I googled it.”

“Oh, yeah, and where did you find that, _Yahoo Answers?”_ He mocks, “Of course the backer gets more than twenty five, Harold, I don’t need google to know that.”

“We can go halfsies on the next one if you’re so fussy about it.”

“Okay, _one_ , your saggy little bottom is _fussy_. Two, we are _not_ doing that again, and three _-”_ he continues over Harry’s attempted protests, “ _And three_ , I’ll go grab my passport so we can buy them tickets, let’s go.”

He leaves the kitchen without waiting to see if Harry’s following. There’s no sign of Anne and Abby as he goes down the stairs, so he reckons they’re either put to bed already, or they’re Huda’s problem now. He gets his key in the lock on the first attempt, a victory for the gays, and stumbles to his desk, looking for the Freshers Week folder where all of his documents are probably still in. 

He hasn’t found them yet when Harry knocks on his door, phone in one hand and passport in the other. He makes a beeline for Louis’ bed, burrowing into his covers like he’s trying to make a nest.

“By all means, Harold, do make yourself comfortable,” Louis rolls his eyes as he goes back to upending the contents of his drawer on top of his desk.

“Ta,” Harry answers, sighing in pleasure, “Your bed smells so good.”

Louis resolutely ignores the tug in his stomach, “It’s called _washing your sheets_ , Harry, get Liam to give you a lesson.”

Harry snorts, rolling onto his back and bringing his phone up to his face, “Niall sent us the flight times, didn’t he?”

“Whatsapp group,” Louis answers, going through a stack of uni paperwork and the giff gaff chip that came in his welcome box, the purple UoM lanyard they gave out to the freshers, the fucking condoms, _god_ , he shoves those back in fast as he can, and then, _finally,_ the little booklet with the dark red cover that had cost him seventy five pounds and had never been used, Her Majesty’s passport. “Here,” he throws it in Harry’s direction, “How much are the tickets now?”

“Fifty four quid return,” Harry answers, “I’m buying both of ours in my account, alright, or would you rather buy it on yours?”

Louis doesn’t have a ryanair account, “Can be on yours, no problem. But don’t go typing my name wrong or you’re the one who’s gonna pay the changing fees.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Harry grumbles, and Louis lobs himself on the bed, lest Harry starts to remember how much of a fuck up Louis is.

“Shove over, c’mon,” he says, trying to insert himself between Harry and the wall. He finds a comfortable position resting his head on Harry’s shoulder as he supervises the buying of their tickets. He could definitely fall asleep like that.

A little thrill runs down his spine when he sees the confirmation screen, _done._ He’s going to Ireland with his mates and it’s going to be fucking _epic_. “Send a screenshot to the group so they know we bought it.”

Harry sends the screenshot with the confirmation for both their tickets, then switches apps to Safari, “I’m going to see if we can book the tickets to the Cliffs in advance in case they’re busy round St. Patrick’s and it sells out.”

“ _Uhum_ ,” Louis agrees, closing his eyes for a moment, and he doesn’t mean to fall asleep, but Harry’s such a good snuggle buddy, it’s not really Louis’ fault that he does, you know?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this chapter features drug mentions and boys making poor life choices)
> 
> Huge thank you to [onlyhuman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyhuman) for betaing this chapter beautifully and in record time, YOU DA BEST

Louis wakes up with a pounding headache and a foul taste in his mouth that indicates he might or might not have thrown up. It hits him even before he opens his eyes, that all-encompassing throbbing that makes him want to snap his head clean off his neck and chuck it away.

It’s been a long time since he’s had a hangover this bad. Since Freshers Week, probably. He’d learned not to mix his liquor quite early into term, after a night out that involved vodka, Red Bull, passing out in the loo and having to be carried home, _literally_. Now, Liam fancies himself a bodybuilder but he was quite pissed himself, and chances are Louis was dropped multiple times, if the litany of bruises on him had anything to say about that.

The night comes back to him in increments, Amarula and Caipirinha and beer mixed with tequila and fucking _sake_ , mate– he could’ve gone without the sake, really.

He opens one eye, gently, assesses the situation. He’s still got movement in all of his limbs, which is a plus, and his phone and wallet are on the desk, another good sign. He’s still fully dressed, shoes and jacket, and a cursory perusal of his clothes and floor tells him he most likely hasn’t vommed anywhere. He might have to, still, because the alcohol is very much still sloshing in his stomach, but he’s confident he can get to the loo before it happens. Things are looking up.

*

He pads into the kitchen, charger in hand, to find Abby, Harry and Anne huddled in the bench by the window, each showing different levels of consciousness.

Huda is at the cooker frying eggs, the only one that notices him, “Morning, sunshine. Want me to do you some eggs?”

He plugs his phone in the outlet by the toaster, “I don’t have any.”

She reaches over and plucks another two from the pack, “Lily’s treat, for vomiting in the bathtub.”

Louis grimaces in sympathy. It’s not like the boys use the upstairs bathroom, but he’ll take a breakfast he doesn’t have to cook or pay for any day.

“Thank you,” Louis says, because he is still slightly terrified of Huda. She’s got this _don’t fuck with me_ aura down to a T, not that Louis can fault her for it – he can only imagine the amount of shit she has to put up with on the daily, just for wearing a hijab.

He sits at the side of the table so he can steal a bit of Anne’s toast. She shoots him a look, but any kind of human interaction seems beyond her. Louis can relate.

“Lily told me you two had a bit of a chat last night, Louis,” Huda starts, as she brings a mountain of fried eggs to the table and five forks, “She said you thought we stopped talking to you because you’re gay.”

Harry pops one eye open and Abby rises from the semi-dead at the sight of their eggs.

“It’s too fucking early to have this conversation,” Louis says, eyes closed. He still doesn’t fucking know why he was punished for Liam’s fuck up, but whatever. He just wants to get it past them.

“It’s two in the afternoon,” Huda deadpans, just as Anne says, “But _I’m bi“._

“Really?” Louis can’t quite tamp down his incredulity, “Why haven’t you joined the LGBT society yet?”

“Not queer enough for them, am I?” She rolls her eyes, “The B might as well stand for _Bananas_.”

Harry throws an arm over her shoulder, “I won’t let anyone be a jerk to you.”

“Ta, love,” she leans her head on his shoulder for a second, “I’m fine, though. Too many societies already.”

“Shame,” Louis says around a mouthful, “We should go out to Canal Street then, just us. Proper wingman, me.”

“I’m kind of seeing someone right now,” she grins, “Like, it’s not official or anything, but I don’t want to pull anyone else.”

“Oh, god, please tell me it’s not Niall,” Louis deadpans, eliciting a barked laugh from Abby and twin groans from Huda and Anne.

“No offence to Niall,” Huda starts, “But there’s only so much flatmate drama I can handle.”

“I’d never,” Anne shakes her head, “I still don’t know what kind of shit Lily was on, to be honest.”

“C’mon, don’t judge her,” Harry laughs, poking Anne in the side, “Can’t believe you lot didn’t make dubious snogging choices in Freshers Week, too, eh? I know I wouldn’t do any of mine today if you _paid me_.”

Louis’ good mood fizzles and dies. Bit harsh, that. Louis knows Harry has only got more attractive since the start of the year, putting on muscle and getting tan and losing the baby fat round his cheeks, but it’s not like Louis is a fucking troll, innit. So he came back from hols with a few extra pounds, so what. It's only the tiniest bit of a tummy pouch, anyway. Not everyone can have a chiseled fucking Adonis belt, can they?

“Yeah, lay off her back,” Louis adds, looking at Harry as he says, “I’m sure she’s learnt to steer clear of flatmates.”

“Lily knows we speak from our hearts,” Abby says, “'sides, that’s fucking _rich_ coming from you two after last night, eh?”

Huda’s eyebrows climb up, “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Louis interjects, just as Harry opens his mouth, “We had to sell it that we were together, is all. It was nothing.”

Harry closes his mouth and nods, says nothing. Louis looks down at the plate under the guise of forking another bit of eggs as Anne starts to recount their adventures in the snooker hall.

He can feel Harry’s gaze burning, but he refuses to look up.

*

Afterwards, he begs out of going to the Printworks with the girls, too off kilter to engage in conversation. He picks up the readings for his Literature and History module but he can’t fucking focus, and he can’t stay still. His room feels stifling, and there’s no sign of Niall and Liam, and he’s got to _stop_ being butthurt about Harry fucking Styles. Since when he cares about whether or not he meets the standards of curly-haired, fake-tanned wannabe bad boys, anyways?

He picks up his phone, wishing more than anything that any of them had a tv licence (or a tv, for that matter), so he could zone out a bit. There are no new messages, so Louis heaves a long-suffering sigh and ventures into some of the muted Whatsapp groups he’s in, that’s how bored he is.

There’s some sort of debate going on in the LGBT society group, inconspicuously named _The Most Amazing Society_ in case someone's mum decides to do a bit of a snoop. Louis vaguely remembers getting an email about the upcoming meet, the first after hols, a _club crawl_ in Canal Street with the societies from other nearby unis. He wasn’t planning on going because he couldn’t fucking afford it, but maybe he needs this. Maybe he needs a distraction.

He does some mental math. Out of the 300 won last night, 150 are already compromised with the trip, which, _whatever_. He’s not going to dwell on it now, with the tickets already bought. Clearly his drunk self knew that come daylight Louis wouldn’t dare to spend any of it on travel.

It’s not like he’s taking any of it off his budget, though, is it? He’s in university, for fuck’s sake. He wants to enjoy it.

He bites his lips, swiveling slowly in his desk chair, and types out, _any spots for 2nite still??_

 _defo,_ one of the girls in the committee answers, _can I put your name down?_

Louis responds with three thumbs up emojis, to which she answers, _brilliant! any other last-minutes?_

A couple of people share their enthusiasm in the form of various random emojis. Louis swipes on his message to see who has seen it, and his heart picks up rhythm when he sees Harry’s contact in the list, which, _no._ The very purpose of spending fifteen unnecessary quid on a night out is to distract himself from Harry. He rolls his eyes at himself and goes back to the chat window, only to see another bloke from the society has requested a late minute ticket, and underneath him Harry has written, _me too._

Louis doesn’t wail in frustration, but it’s a near thing.

*

Liam is lining shot glasses on their kitchen counter when Louis pushes in, showered and ready to go.

“Do we still have any of the _José Cuervo_?” Liam asks him as Louis approaches.

“Might have in Niall’s cupboard,” Louis shrugs, going on his tiptoes to peruse it, “Where’s this party you guys are going, anyway?”

“Warehouse Project,” Liam answers, looking down at his phone.

Louis emerges with the half-full bottle of tequila and sets it down on the counter, “That rave you two went to last year? When you phoned me because you were tripping on MDMA and you thought you were going to die?”

Liam has the grace to look embarrassed, “That won’t happen tonight.”

Louis narrows his eyes, “The molly or the _phoning me_ part?”

“Molly?” Harry says over the creak of the door, pushing his way into the kitchen, “I thought we were doing shots.”

“We are,” Louis says, not taking his eyes off Liam, “Niall’s just downstairs picking up their candy. He’ll be up in a sec.”

Liam blushes and Louis thinks, _busted._

“There’s a pusher downstairs?” Harry asks, hand going to his pocket as if on instinct. Louis narrows his eyes at him too, watches Harry try to cover it up by adjusting his bulge. _Right_.

“Just a mate of Niall’s,” Liam says, pocketing his phone and starting on the bottle, “Grab us the salt, Lou.”

“No limes?” Harry asks, going to the fridge.

Louis looks up at him, “D’you have any?”

Harry shakes his head no, lips pursed.

Louis shrugs as if to say, _well then,_ and lines up a bit of salt in a saucer.

*

“Right, let’s recap,” Nick Grimshaw, society president and certified gangly giraffe, holds up a bunch of plastic bowties over their heads, “Put the ties on and you can go in and out of the clubs in the list whenever you want, no queue. We’ll meet in each of them for a line of shots at the hour, starting with _Kiki_ at eleven and ending in _Cruz 101_ at four.”

He continues, “If you want to use the student shuttle to go back to halls, it will leave from the car park across _Cruz_ at five, just show your student id. We’re not gonna do a headcount at the end of the night, okay, we’re not your nannies– so drink responsibly, and have a wicked night!”

Louis cheers with the rest of the group, still pleasantly buzzed from the shots they’d done before leaving the flat. There’s about fifteen of them from University of Manchester, and he can see another bunch from MMU and Salford a few paces ahead, getting their own bowties as they all enter the gay village. Canal Street is already crowded, vibrant and delightfully queer as it sprawls across from the Alan Turing Memorial.

Harry hooks his tie in, tight and high up his neck like a collar, because _of course_ he would. He’s wearing his hair up in a complicated looking quiff, painted-on black skinnies with a blue checkered flannel shirt over a white vest even though it’s barely the end of January, for fuck’s sake. No wonder his nipples are piercing through the fabric.

Not that Louis was staring, or anything. It’s just rather hard to miss.

*

They line up the bar at _Kiki_ – or at least they try. There’s got to be at least thirty people in rainbow bowties crowding up the bar area, so that some end up pressed against it and the others crowd around them. Louis is secretly glad for it, because he left the flat _sans_ coat, like Harry, to spare themselves the hassle and fees of coatrooms. The three-block walk from the bus stop to their first club had seemed infinite.

“Wish Anne had come out with us,” Harry shouts by his ear, “I’m sure Grimmy would’ve sold her a tie even though she’s not in the society.”

“Yeah,” Louis nods, his eyes tracking the progress of the tray filled with shots being passed around, “She could’ve brought her special someone.”

“D’you think she would’ve got shit if it’s a man?” Harry turns to the approaching tray, arms reaching over a short girl in front of him to pluck two shot glasses. He hands one to Louis, “You go to the meets more than I do, right?”

“You only go when there’s alcohol,” Louis rolls his eyes good-naturedly, holding his shot glass to his nose. It’s purple, and smells faintly of bleach.

Someone yells, _Cheers!_ Harry and Louis respond, “Cheers!” Both knocking their glasses back. It burns down Louis’ throat, acidic and coarse.

Harry makes a face, “What was that?”

Louis smiles, “No idea!”

*

At midnight their shot is blue, “Do you even know a blue liquor?” Harry frowns at him.

“There’s _Blue Curaçao_ ,” Louis enounces over the music, definitely pronouncing it wrong, “Pretty sure this is just food colouring, though.”

Harry nods, lips pursed, and they wait for the call of _Cheers!_ to knock it back. Between clubs one and two they’d found a pub that sold pints of Foster for £2.30, practically gulped it down in their haste to go back, and the end result is that, being drunker than an hour ago, the second shot tastes way better than the first, even though it’s probably just as shit.

A small, busty girl approaches them, bright pink hair like a beacon in the dark club.

“Hiya, Rooney,” Louis smiles. He’s usually crap at names but she’s from Finningley, the closest he’s ever got to finding someone from Donny here, “This is Harry.”

“Hiya,” Harry says, leaning on the bar, “Y’alright?”

“Hi!” She’s got her bowtie looped through the strap of her top instead of around her neck. Louis reaches out to pull at it, but she bats his hands away, “So, are you guys, you know,” she rubs her index fingers together.

“No,” Louis answers, rushed. He doesn’t want to be snubbed by Harry twice in one day, “Two gay males can coexist without being attracted to each other, believe it or not.”

“Oi, shut it,” she makes to hit him with her empty can of Heineken, “I’m not pulling it out of my arse. You two have been glued at the hip since we arrived.”

Harry opens his mouth to answer, but he barely gets a syllable out before Louis announces, “That’s because we’re _friends_ , which, see, is another rare phenomena between–” she really does hit him this time.

“You’re a pest,” Rooney leans on the bar between Harry and Louis, a tenner in hand, “I shouldn’t even be setting you up with my mate.”

“Aw, that’s cute,” Louis cocks his head to the side, juts his hips out as he leans his elbow on the bar top. Being noticed is always nice– and with Harry as a witness, even nicer. “I don’t really flirt by courier, though.”

“It’s not like that,” she laughs, “Wanted to see if you were single, is all.” She accepts the new beer and change, “Catch you later, loves.”

As soon as she’s out of earshot, Harry turns to him, “ _Friends_ , huh,” his mouth twists in a smirk, “Friends who are not attracted to each other.”

Louis ignores the way the back of his neck prickles. “As we should,” he matches Harry’s smirk with one of his own, “You know, being flatmates, and all that.”

“Of course,” Harry agrees, angelic. He steps into the space Rooney left, their hands almost touching on the bar top, “Don’t want to cause any more tension in the house, do we.”

“Never,” Louis agrees, “Besides, I think we know better than to make the same _dubious snogging choices_ twice, don’t we?”

Harry’s eyebrows draw together, quick response dying on his tongue. Then realisation dawns, and he barks out a laugh, loud even over the club music, “Oh, c’mon! You know I didn’t mean _you_!"

“Hey, it’s all good, love,” Louis shrugs, the picture of nonchalance, “I agree. It’s like they say, _never double dunk a dick_ ,” he winks.

Harry looks as if he’s not sure whether to take Louis seriously or not, “Right. Plenty of unsnogged fish in the sea.”

“That’s the spirit,” Louis fist-bumps him in the shoulder. He has no idea what he’s doing. He turns as if to peruse the crowd, “I reckon it’s time for some fishing, then. Shall we?”

*

At one a.m. his shot is green, and Louis is getting tired of suspicious-looking, pride-themed shots. Can’t they just have some _jäger bombs_ or something?

Harry’s disappeared a good forty minutes ago, after they’d started to point out guys in the crowd to one another and he’d taken an interest in one Louis chose for him.

It felt good to be the one to dismiss Harry at the time, but now he’s just bored. He doesn’t even know if Harry changed clubs in time for his free shot.

*

At two his shot is yellow, and Louis has given up any pretence of trying to pull, content to just dance and get shitfaced. G-A-Y is the fourth club; they’re playing Madonna and Louis manages to forget about Harry for a while, losing himself to the beat while he grinds on various strangers.

He refuses a couple of invitations to the dark room and sticks to his society friends and absolutely doesn’t get annoyed when they keep asking him, _where’s Harry?_

*

The three a.m. club is a lesbian bar, and Louis plans to get in, get his shot and go straight to _Cruz_. The crowd of students has thinned by now, many of them taking detours or straight up forgetting to change clubs at the hour.

He spots Rooney talking to one of the committee girls by the bar, and he’s drunk enough that he sidles up to them without even hesitating.

“Hey girlies,” he smiles, draping an arm over Rooney’s shoulders, “Smashing night, huh?” They’re both sweaty and it’s a bit gross, but Louis kind of needs the support to stay upright. He’s bought some shots of his own between the last club and here. “Hope this next one is just some Fanta orange with a bit of vodka, though, right?”

The committee girl, whose name Louis absolutely does not remember, smiles at them, “Our shot is actually a mini _tequila sunrise_ this time,” she winks at Rooney as she adds, “Lesbians do it better.”

“They sure do,” Louis agrees, even though he hasn’t got the faintest clue what _it_ means or what a tequila sunrise is. He hopes it doesn’t involve _fucking tomato juice_. He’s only had a _Bloody Mary_ once, which was already one too many for him.

“Right, Louis,” Rooney smiles up at him, a bit manic, “Don’t you wanna go dance with Harry, or something?”

Louis frowns, “ _Harry?_ No. That twat fucked off with this guy, like, two hours a– _ouch!_ Why did you pinch me?”

Rooney blushes crimson while the other girl goes all smiley, biting her lip. They’re both being awfully rude, no manners at all.

“I’m gonna go get the shots,” Committee Girl says, still smiling as she backs away.

Rooney rounds on him, “What the fuck, Louis? _Cockblock much_?”

Louis frowns at her, leaning on the bar now that his support is gone, “You were just talking.”

“Right, like you and Harry were just talking earlier.” She rolls her eyes, “He hasn’t fucked off, by the way. I saw him, like, ten minutes ago.”

“Really?” Louis asks, and then before he can bite his tongue, “Was he with someone?”

Rooney softens a bit, “Yeah, blond guy in a Lady Gaga shirt? Proper tashing on, they were. Sorry, babes.”

“Sorry for what? I don’t care who he snogs, he’s just my flatmate,” Louis shrugs, shoulders bouncing. Rooney looks like she’s trying rather hard to keep a straight face, so he adds, “I _don’t_! I don’t fancy him, Rooney.”

“Sure you don’t, love,” she smiles. They see Committee Girl emerging from the bar with a tray full of tiny plastic cups containing, presumably, their tequila sunrise, “Tell you what, we toast to your total lack of interest in your completely platonic flatmate, and then you fuck off, _aite?_ Still trying to pull here.”

“You’re rude,” Louis says, even as he accepts his tiny drink.

*

 _Cruz 101_ is his last shot at salvaging this clusterfuck of a night out, and that’s the only reason he lingers around the club until the final shot, thank you very much.

One of the guys he was dancing with gave him a rather unwelcome hickey on his neck, which is so fucking far away from the normal response to being grinded on it’s not even funny.

He refuses a few more propositions and drinks his red shot and if he has a bit of a look around the club, it’s only to see if he doesn’t find anyone who strikes his fancy.

*

That last shot must’ve been pure cranberry splash because by quarter to five his alcohol-induced buzz has almost completely dissipated, and Louis finds that he can’t really be bothered to keep going if he’s not even pissed anymore. His night out’s a certified total fucking failure – in that he has failed to enjoy himself, even if he’s danced his feet off and spent some quality time with his mates from the LGBT society.

He refuses to acknowledge even the possibility of his lack of enthusiasm stemming from a certain flatmate ditching him not _two fucking hours_ into the night, that cannot be it. Harry’s his own person and if he wants to fuck off with a guy he’s only just met, then he’s free to do it, and Louis’ opinion on the matter is that he doesn’t give a rat’s arse, thank you ever so.

It’s started to drizzle when he spills into the street again, and the prospect of having to walk to the bus stop, wait some twenty minutes for the bus to arrive and then walk from his stop to his flat without a coat sounds like _actual hell_ , so he starts making his way to the meet point for the shuttle.

Out of the six people already under the marquee, only Nick Grimshaw looks sufficiently like he’s not about to sick up in the pavement for Louis to approach. Nick’s always smiling and making jokes and surrounded by so many people that Louis is mildly surprised he’s going home alone. He wonders if Nick had a flatmate-induced shit night, too.

“Hiya, Louis,” Nick smiles, “Where’s Harry?”

“I don’t know,” Louis shrugs, “I’m not his nanny.”

“Of course, I know,” Nick says as he waves at another arriving couple, “I just meant, ‘cos you’re flatmates.”

Louis doesn’t want to talk about Harry. “‘night was wicked,” he says instead, “I’m keeping the tie.”

“Ta, love,” Nick smiles, wide, “Fiona and I picked them. It’s nice to hear the nite-out was a success ‘cos I’m proper knackered, but I’m not off until the shuttle leaves.”

“Not on the pull, then?” Louis asks, face neutral, “Just being pulled to bed.”

“Ah, no, not a night for pulling,” Nick eyes him, “Wouldn’t be opposed, really, but with the shots on the hour and herding you children home, no time for pulling. Just being pulled to my cold bed.”

“Halls are well warm,” Louis comments, face trained on the road, “If you don’t fancy your cold bed.”

“Louis–”

“Might even get a cuddle out of it, if you’re nice.” He adds, heart in his throat.

There’s a beat of silence. Then Nick says, offhandedly, “Well, I _do_ love a good cuddle,” and that’s that.

*

Louis puts his newfound friendship with the girls to the test by making as much noise as he can while entering the flat, banging the door and knocking over the umbrella stand as he pulls Nick in.

“Well, it _is_ warm.” Nick says, hand to Louis’ hip as Louis steers them towards his door. They’d sat side by side on the shuttle and Nick’d put his hand on his thigh, even as he chatted non-stop with everyone else the whole way back. “Fuck, I miss living in halls.”

“No you don’t,” Louis laughs as he fumbles with his key as long as he can get away with.

No one comes out of their room to investigate the noise, and so Louis turns the key and lets them both in.

*

He wakes up to the sound of the front door banging, someone tripping on the knocked over umbrella stand and letting out a resounding ‘ _fuck’_.

_Harry._

Louis is wide awake in a second, listening as Harry curses some more and drags the umbrella stand (presumably back to its corner), and then walks to his door, turns the key and lets himself inside.

There’s no noise after that, and so Louis opens his eyes – it’s morning out, he didn’t draw the curtains – and assesses the situation in his room. Nick is squished between Louis and the wall, arm thrown over Louis’ waist, snoring softly into Louis’ neck.

Niall was right, he’s never brought anyone over before. He wonders what the protocol is.

Louis extricates himself from his bed with as little noise as possible, stands, hands on his hips. He isn’t really hungover, just a little prelude of a headache behind his eyes, thanks to being mostly sober when he fell asleep.

He’s wearing his pants and his sweater from the night before. Nick probably is, too, judging by both their jeans on the floor. He bends down and picks them up, drapes Nick’s jeans over the back of his chair, chucks his own back in the wardrobe.

He’s really, really not sure what the protocol is.

He puts on a pair of tracksuit bottoms, catches his reflection in the mirror stuck behind the wardrobe door and winces, tries to tame his hair into something presentable. He puts on a beanie when that doesn’t help, rubs the sleep out of his eyes.

Out in the hall, a door opens. Probably Harry’s, but he can’t be sure. Then someone starts to go up the stairs, and judging by the pattern of footsteps, it’s not Niall or Liam.

Louis looks at his reflection in the mirror. Looks over at Nick, still dead to the world in his bed, then back at himself.

 _Fuck it_ , he thinks. How is having a boy over supposed to help him come out on top if no one even knows about it?

“Nick,” Louis whispers, crouched by his bed, “Nick.”

Nick opens one eye and looks vaguely confused as to his whereabouts until he sees Louis. He opens the other one.

“Louis,” he croaks. It sounds vaguely like a question.

“Want a cup of tea?” Louis asks, “I’ve got some ibuprofen in the kitchen, too.”

“Uh,” is Nick’s eloquent response.

“C’mon,” Louis pulls the duvet back, “Up you go.”

Nick’s got a bit of a morning wood situation going on, which Louis chooses to ignore. He picks up Nick’s jeans from the back of his chair and offers them back to him.

“What time is it?” Nick asks on a yawn, accepting his jeans and starting to put them on very gingerly, still lying down.

Louis picks up his phone, “One thirty.” Niall sent five audios to their WhatsApp group around six in the morning. Louis bets it’s just unintelligible club noise.

“Fuck, I gotta dash.” Nick says, sitting down at the edge of the bed and rooting for his shoes.

“But you’ll have a cuppa first,” Louis' tone doesn’t really leave room for discussion, “Right?” He smiles.

“Sure,” Nick says, looking up at him.

He looks like he’s about to say something else, so Louis promptly turns on his ankles and heads for the door, “Let’s go.”

*

Harry’s leaning on the counter by the kettle when Louis enters the kitchen.

“Hey,” Harry says, looking up, “Where did you–  _Nick_ ,” he pauses when he sees Nick entering the kitchen after Louis, “Uh, hi.” Harry’s eyes flit to Louis, then back to Nick’s, then to the hickey on Louis’ neck.

“Hiya, Harry,” Nick smiles, “Y’alright?”

Louis bends to look at the water level on the kettle. Should be enough for three.

“Yeah,” Harry says, a second too late. He keeps looking between them.

“I’m just gonna,” Nick points to the bench by the window, “‘Cos my head is absolutely killing–  _Fuck,_ ” he groans as he sits down on the hard bench, wincing, “My bum, _fuck_.”

Harry’s head whips in Louis’ direction, who makes a show of biting his lips around a smile as he reaches up to get his own mug and Niall’s. He’s only got one mug.

“D’you know where Niall put the ibuprofen, Harry?” Louis asks, innocent.

The kettle pings as it finishes boiling. “Harry?” Louis asks again as he opens the sink and pours water on a glass, and Harry belatedly shakes his head no, expression indecipherable.

Louis knows where the ibuprofen is. He opens a random drawer before pulling open the right one, fishing the blister pack out and taking them to Nick, who’s laying down on his side on the bench, eyes closed.

“Here”, Louis says, and runs a hand through Nick’s hair, just because. From the corner of his eyes, he sees Harry turning around and starting to busy himself with his tea.

Louis is just pouring the milk when the door opens, Abby coming in with a subway carrier bag in her hand, “Afternoon, princesses,” she smiles at the two of them, “How was the p– _Oh_ ,” her eyes land on Nick, who has sat back up to drink his water, “Someone had a _gentleman caller_ ,” she wags her eyebrows at them before sitting herself opposite Nick on the table, “Hi, I’m Abby. Which one of them did you shag?”

“ _Hm_ ,” Nick looks at him over her head, confused and a bit pink.

Louis hurries to bring their tea to the table, sits down besides Nick, “Leave him alone, Abs.”

She smiles, absurdly amused at the situation as she unpacks her footlong. The kitchen fills with the crinkle of wrapping paper as they both sip on their too hot teas to avoid making conversation.

Harry’s still by the counter, staring fixedly at his phone.

Nick starts looking a bit green after a while. The smell of Abby’s sandwich isn’t doing wonders for Louis’ hungover stomach, either. “Let’s go,” he says, bumping their forearms, smiling at the sheer relief that shows in Nick’s face before he manages to hide it.

“Bye, Abby,” Nick says, as they make their way towards the door, “Bye, Harry.”

“Bye, Lou’s shag!” She singsongs before the kitchen door closes between them.

“Thanks,” Nick says as they’re going down the stairs, “I’m not quite ready to see food yet.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Louis agrees as they make their way back to Louis’ room for Nick’s jacket, “C’mon, I’ll walk you down.”

*

They’re silent the whole way down the stairs, towards the door to the building.

“Louis,” Nick starts as they reach the ground floor, “I’ve had a great time last night.”

Louis turns to look at him, eyebrow raised, “You don’t remember anything, do you?”

“Not a thing, sorry,” they laugh, “Why is my left bumcheek sore? Are you a biter, or summat?”

“You backed right into the corner of my desk,” Louis says, going a bit red despite himself, “Quite hard, too. It’s probably going to bruise.”

“Sounds like me,” Nick nods. They’re standing just inside the door. “So, did we– What _did_ we do last night?”

“Nothing,” Louis looks down. He knows he’s blushing, “I mean, we kissed a bit, but you were dead on your feet. So we just cuddled.”

“Oh, really?” Nick pauses, then says, sheepish, “Sorry, I guess?”

Louis smiles, “It’s fine. You’re a good cuddler.”

“That I am,” Nick agrees, though he still looks embarrassed, “I’ll, uh, see you around?”

Louis holds the door open for him, and waves.

 *

Louis climbs the stairs back to his flat slowly, unlocks the door, crosses the hall to his room.

He enters, drops his keys on his desk, leans on the closed door. Only then he lets himself smile.

It couldn’t’ve gone better if he’d planned it– Abby’s definitely going to tell the rest of the flat, which will get Niall off his back, and Harry had a face on him like a smacked arse when he saw the two of them.

And to top it all off, Nick doesn’t even remember it was _Louis_ who fucking chickened out of, well–  _fucking_.

*

 _missed_ _a well good meet last night,_ Nick texts him the following Thursday, _patrick brought cupcakes_

And then just after that, _hope ur not avoiding me !_

Louis taps his index finger against the back of his phone. He wasn’t planning on going to the LGBT society meeting even before Nick. _Round table night_ involves no table at all, just their chairs in a circle and a discussion about a topic of their choosing.

There's a list where you can write topic suggestions anonymously, and then the whole group discusses it. Ever since he first heard about it, Louis has thought about writing ' _scared of sex_ ’– but he's even more scared of someone figuring out it was him who wrote it.

 **am not** , Louis texts back, **busy is all. shame about the cupcakes :(**

 _daisy's coming out party tonight at mine_ , Nick texts, _it went tits up at home so need everyone there !_

They get mortal every time someone comes out. The worse it goes, the bigger the party. He thumbs out of Nick's messages and into _The Most Amazing Society_ , but there's nothing there about a party.

 **there's nothing in the group** , he texts Nick, **are you trying to lure me into your chambers**

Nick answers with the rolling eyes emoji, and a second later, in the group chat, he sends his location with an _in case you gremlins get lost ! 8 sharp 2nite !_ and two people immediately respond with the thumbs up emoji. Louis answers with a thumbs up of his own, and doesn’t go back to Nick’s window.

*

Nick’s house is– and Louis is not taking the piss, right, ‘cos who knows where he’ll end up next year, but Nick’s house is on _the arse end of nowhere_ , even further down Oxford Road than Louis’ halls, which is, in his humble opinion, no small feat. It’s not hard to spot because it’s the only house showing any sign of human life at almost 9 p.m., and Nick and his housemates must be fucking hated by the whole neighbourhood if they throw parties on the reg.

It’s a nice house, at least, but it still warrants Louis asking him why the fuck would they voluntarily live south of the A6010, which gets the whole kitchen arguing, but it’s not good enough a distraction to prevent Nick from pulling him to the side, out in the garden.

“Here’s the thing,” Nick starts off with, fumbling with a creased pack of lucky strikes that appears to be where he keeps his rollies, “When I drink a lot, I forget stuff, right, but not forever – it always comes back to me after a few days.”

He pauses to light one, and Louis makes grabby hands, “Give us one.”

Nick tips the box in his direction, “ _So_ , Saturday night is not much of a fog anymore.”

“Good for you,” Louis mumbles around the cigarette, ignoring Nick in favour of trying to light it.

Louis could probably make it to the door in under thirty seconds, he thinks. He’ll miss going to the LGBT society, but alas.

“Turns out I _wasn’t_ too drunk to perform, would you look at that.” Nick grins, “My ego remains intact.”

Louis is chalking it up to the alcohol that he hasn’t dissolved in a puddle of embarrassment yet, “And still very much inflated, I see.”

Nick cocks his head, “Why did you lie, Louis?”

He’s looking at Louis like he does when someone starts crying in the middle of _round table_ and Louis _hates it_. Running for it is still pretty high on his list of possible escapes.

Louis offers his lighter back, “Not sure what you’re on about, mate.”

“Louis–" 

“It’s fucking freezing out here, I’m gonna go back inside– Not that your old mansion is any warmer, but–"

“ _Louis._ ”

“I haven’t done it, alright?” And fuck his fucking loose tongue, honestly, “I’ve never–" he makes a crude hand gesture that he hopes conveys his meaning.

Nick stares at him for a second, eyes wide as saucers, and then he smiles and goes, “ _Awwwww,”_ which–

“Shut up,” Louis threatens, “Shut the fuck up. If you tell a soul I’ll say it’s ‘cos you couldn’t get it up.”

Nick continues to look too fucking amused, “Why not, though? Are you saving yourself for marriage or summat?”

Louis rolls his eyes, “I just haven’t, ok, I had these mixed feelings growing up but then I met this older guy, and he was so attractive it kind of brought a forced end to my gay crisis, and I obsessed over him for years, I wanted it to be him, but then he thought I was too young and it was time to come to uni and I haven’t, you know–” Louis needs to stop fucking talking, this is not a fucking counseling session, but _god_ , Nick is always a great listener in their society meetings and once he’s started talking–

He’s never told _anyone._ Anyone. “It’s not like I haven’t done anything, you know? There was the cheeky hand job in the club loo and even the eventual blowie, but I’d done that with my first girlfriend already, it wasn’t all that new. You were the first guy I’d even, like, been alone with in a room with a bed and I fucking panicked, alright?”

Nick’s forehead is creased, and he’s not laughing at him anymore, which Louis can’t tell if it’s better or worse, “Well, I’m honoured that you wanted to take me home– No, shut it, _I am,”_ he says over Louis’ attempt at a protest, “Why me, though? I mean, before Saturday, you’ve never, you know, we’d never–”

Louis looks at a spot on the wall just left of Nick’s head as he shrugs, “You’re the only one I knew well enough to bet you wouldn’t be a cunt about it if I changed my mind, and I wanted to–” _make Harry jealous,_ “–try it.”

Nick pulls in a long drag, “Look, even though I think you’re well fit, right, one hundred percent shaggable,” he says around the smoke, “I gotta say that was a _shit plan_ , mate. And, I mean, considering you went into a panic when I pulled a condom out, I think you knew that.”

 _God_ , he does remember it. Add it to the list of sex-related humiliating moments of his life.

“Don’t look like that,” Nick says, and Louis tries and fails to school his expression, “You’re fine, love. No one has a gay revelation and then proceeds to take it up the bum, like, the next day."

Louis frowns, “Don't take three years to do it, though.”

“They might," Nick shrugs, "It's not like you're gonna get your gay membership revoked if you don't like it.”

"I haven't tried,” Louis repeats, "I don't know if I like it.”

Nick considers him for a moment, “Tell you what– You can ask me anything you want about it. I’m drunk enough to answer and you’re drunk enough to ask, so, shoot.”

Louis pulls the smoke in, holds it. _Fuck it_. It’s not like he can get _more_ embarrassed. He blurts out, “What if I accidentally shit on someone’s knob?”

Nick chokes on a laugh, smoke coming out his nostrils.

Louis frowns as he watches Nick cough, trying to pull in a breath, “I’m _serious_. I know how anal sex fucking happens, but what do I do to make sure I don’t shit on someone’s dick?”

“Well, it’s a possibility, it’s always gonna be a small possibility,” Nick says, still a bit out of breath, “Unless you do yourself an enema and don’t eat anything before sex. Then you can have the wildest sex you can think of– fisting, DP, you name it, and it’s not gonna happen. Thing is, though, it’s not a pleasant experience, is it, and it’s not even like, good for your health to keep doing it. So I’d say, unless you’re planning on being in a gangbang, don’t do it.”

Louis crosses his arms, “Well, that’s not very helpful, is it?”

Nick nods, “Ok, like, as a rule of thumb I’d say, if you think you’re gonna get lucky, go to the loo, obviously, take a shower, get clean, shave it if you like, you know, do your thing, and then when you’re in the shower, just stick a finger in, and if it comes out clean you’re good to go, and you’re going to continue being good to go until a few hours after you eat.” He pauses, scratches his chin, “And you should do it alone first, definitely. Pick an evening, take a shower, put some _Lana_ on, and take your time, so that when you’re doing it with someone else you know what to expect and you’re not so freaked out.”

Louis nods. He tried it once and it was fucking uncomfortable, but he draws the line at sharing _that._

“After a few times you just get to know your body and the cheeky finger’s not even needed, you know when you can do it and when you shouldn’t.” Nick continues, “Also, never do it when you’ve had spicy food. And like, whatever level of bum hygiene you usually have, double it. And when you know you’re gonna get shagged, triple it. I think that’s about it.”

“Good.” Louis nods, “I guess I’m free to go crawl into a hole and die, now.”

Nick laughs, “Don’t sweat it, pet. You’re fine, you know? You’re fine.”

“Right,” Louis looks into the house again, thinking longingly of all the alcohol he can drown his embarrassment in, “Could you maybe, like, never tell anyone about any of this? Or Saturday?”

“Won’t say a word.” Nick grins, “I’m like a gay priest, me. Just, like, make sure to warn the next poor sod that you might go all _victorian maiden_ on him, alright?”

Louis flips him off.

*

Harry's on the two-seater chatting with Alexa when Louis comes out of the kitchen, alcohol levels raised anew, and his stomach twists – because of all the booze, nothing else – and before he fully processes it he’s marching towards them and plopping himself in the space between Harry and the arm of the sofa. It wasn’t very spacious to begin with, and Louis ends up turned towards them with a knee slung over Harry’s thighs.

“When did you get here," Louis says, half inquisitive, half accusatory, “Thought you weren’t coming.”

“Hadn’t looked at the group until, like, an hour ago,” Harry says, rearranging his arms to accommodate the sudden amount of Louis in his space, “Sorry to disappoint.”

That’s not what he meant. “That’s not what I meant,” he tells him, and knocks his heel to the front of Harry’s shins as hard as he can manage, which isn’t all that hard.

Harry completely ignores it, “Is this, like, your signature move,” he says, hand coming down heavy on Louis’ thigh, ”Sitting in people's laps to get the message across.”

Louis' face goes up in flames, but he can’t very well get up now, can he? "Shut up and scoot over, will you?” He just hopes he was already sufficiently flushed from drinking that it doesn’t show.

Judging by the way Alexa’s looking at them, it does, “Right,” she says, “I’m gonna find the jägermeister.”

“That was rude,” Harry says, once she’s out of earshot, “You interrupted her.”

“I rescued her from having to put up with you,” Louis declares, poking at Harry’s ribs until he sort of slides over to the spot Alexa’s just vacated and Louis’ bum finally makes contact with the actual sofa cushion.

“Stop hurting me,” Harry frowns, “Are you in a mood ‘cos Nick’s snogging another bloke, or what.”

Louis makes a face that hopefully conveys how unimpressed he is, “Why _the fuck_ would I be cross about that?”

Harry lifts an eyebrow, “Didn’t you two shag on Saturday.”

“So?” Louis snorts, “I don’t see _you_ attached to the poor sod you went home with.”

“I didn’t–” he cuts himself off, “How did you know I slept out? Knocked on my door, or something?”

“Yes,” Louis replies, deadpan, “We wanted to invite you for a threesome.”

Harry’s first reaction, before he realises it’s a joke, is– too much for Louis to even begin to deal with.

“Would’ve gone home if I knew,” Harry says, joking, though his tone is a touch deeper than it was a moment ago, “You and Nick– it’s a bust, then?”

“There was no _me and Nick_ to begin with,” Louis’ face betrays nothing when he adds, “A shag’s a shag.”

“Fair,” Harry nods, and Louis can’t quite parse his expression.

There’s a moment of silence, the two of them watching the party unfurl, thighs pressed close together. Louis starts to peel the label off his bottle.

“I’m in,” he says, quiet, “I need money.”

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Harry’s head lolling on the backrest towards him, an eyebrow raised in question.

A bit of the label tears, and Louis tries scratching it off with his nail, “There’s something I need to have replaced by Easter break. I’m six hundred and eighty quid short and that’s already putting aside two hundred and fifty from this term’s maintenance pay. There’s just no way I’m going to make it by budgeting my student loan, even if I, like, stop drinking and only eat on the odd days of the month. So, if you still want to do Friday again, I’m in.”

“Okay,” Harry says.

“And I’ve tried getting a job, you know, I tried it, but no one wants to work around my fucking timetable. It changes, like, three fucking times per month– sometimes I have to be at uni during the night and on weekends for a play, and even the uni jobs are all filled because there’s forty fucking thousand of us, and–”

“Louis,” Harry interrupts, hand to his knee, “You don’t have to justify it to me.”

“I know,” Louis says, brings his head to his hands, “Guess I’m trying to justify it to _me_. You know we could get fucked, Harry. You know it. It’s not a game.”

“I know it isn’t,” Harry squeezes his thigh, “I’ve got you, okay? And you saw how much we made in one night, last week. You’ll have your seven hundred by Easter, and then some.”

“But that guy was a gambler. You saw it. A mediocre player and a gambler. We won’t find those every time we go out. It was,” and he laughs at the irony of it, “Beginner’s luck.”

“Then we’ll do it as many times as it takes to get it,” Harry takes a gulp of his beer, “You wanna get a kebab when we get out of here?”

“What?” Louis turns to look at him, confused at the sudden change of direction.

Really, they’re quite smushed together. There’s still a lot of cushion to the other side of Harry, but he doesn’t seem inclined to move away. His breath ghosts over Louis’ face when he elaborates, “I’m craving a kebab. I think _Abduls_ is open until six, or we can go to the Curry Mile if you want. My treat.”

“I can pay my own,” Louis frowns, “Yeah, fine. One more beer, though.”

“Aces,” Harry smiles, dimples popping, “Two more beers, even. They haven’t even filmed the boomerang of Daisy jumping out of a wardrobe yet.”

Louis snorts. They’re quite possibly the most ridiculous LGBT society in all of the UK. He stays put, and doesn’t ask Harry to move away.

*

The Curry Mile is always fucking _alive_ in the early hours of the morning, bustling with a cacophony of sound and light and deliciously foreign smells. There’s got to be at least a hundred food shops in that stretch of Wilmslow Road between his halls and the main university buildings, and not a single one of them is British. It’s like stepping out of Manchester for a while, and into one of the countries he daydreams of backpacking through, sometime in the future when money isn’t so tight.

They end up in Abduls anyway, just to avoid the hassle of having to take the long way back home. There’s enough students in the area that they have a Starbucks and a Wetherspoons in less than a five minute walk from halls, even though Fallowfield is, for all intents and purposes, a suburb, and not a nice one at that. Starbucks probably has to close for the summer with all its hipster clientele out of town, but Abduls is a local gem, appreciated by students and full-time citizens alike, and they have to wait a good fifteen minutes for their turn at the counter.

Harry orders something called a _Seekh Kebab_ , which in Louis’ opinion looks less like a kebab and more like a couple of unbreaded battered sausages, and then an egg-fried rice and a fish finger meal with chips and a drink and _jesus fucking christ_ , “What happened to _chicken-breast-and-egg-whites-eating_ Harry?” He _sure as fuck_ hopes Harry’s not ordering extra food for his sake, or Louis will shove the phallic-shaped nonkebabs up his sorry little arse.

Harry sticks his tongue out, “I’m still growing.”

“Sure you are,” Louis nods, sage. Well, at least his biceps sure as fuck are still growing, Louis remembers the cobweb-duster-shaped noodle that had introduced himself as _Harry Styles_ in the first meeting of the LGBT society. Sure has grown since then.

He averts his eyes back to the menu options, shaking his head a bit to rid himself of that line of thought. Louis was the one who said, _friends_ , and he will be caught _dead_ before he’s the one to cave in first and make a move.

Not that he’s expecting Harry to make a move, that’s not–  _Anyway_.

He’s eyeing the curry menu with interest when Nick’s voice comes out of fucking nowhere, _never do it when you’ve had spicy food_ and fuck, that conversation will haunt him for eternity, won’t it. He’s still fucking drunk and already regretting having opened his mouth.

*

“Here’s the thing, though,” Louis starts when they’re seated in a table near the window, Harry with enough food to feed a small family and Louis with a chicken döner kebab, “We can’t keep splitting the pot three to one. It’s not fair. Most stakehorses get at least half.”

“Now who’s been to _yahoo answers_?” Harry grins around a forkful of fried rice. Louis wonders if he’ll wake up tomorrow regretting that much food. At least it’s sure to soak up all the alcohol. “How about this: After you get your money, you play for me one to three or even zeroing your share, until we top off seven hundred quid of my own. You do have a deadline to get your money, don’t you? Until Easter?”

“I do,” Louis purses his lips, considering. This arrangement will require quite a lot of trust. It’s not something Louis is used to giving away easily.

“Louis,” Harry pauses, hesitant, “You didn’t– You didn’t get mixed up with some bad people, did you?”

Louis frowns, “What do you mean?”

“This thing you need replaced,” Harry gulps down a bit of his diet coke, “What happens if you don’t come up with the money? Are you in trouble? Like, with a loan shark, or something?“

“Oh,“ Louis laughs, “No, Harry, it’s nothing like that. It’s–” Harry pushes his carton of chips in Louis’ direction, an offer. Louis pops a chip in his mouth, “Okay, so, we don’t have a lot of money to spare, back home. My mum has a good job, she’s a midwife, but there’s five of us,” he laughs at Harry’s comically wide eyes, “Yeah.”

“We only have one old laptop back home,” he continues, “So when I got into uni, she said I’d need one for studying, and that she’d bought me one as a nice going away present, ‘cos she was so proud of me.” He smiles, bittersweet, “And it was one of those Macbooks, the Pro ones that cost more than a thousand pounds. I knew we don’t have that kind of money lying around so I begged her to return it, but she wouldn’t have it.”

“That’s nice of her. Were you the first of your siblings to get into uni?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m the eldest,” Louis nods, “I’ve four sisters. So anyway, I get here, and right in, like, the first week, I go out for a pint after one of those workshops in Freshers Fair, and the laptop is in my book bag.”

“Oh, no,” Harry groans around his chippie, “It got stolen?”

“I didn’t even notice until, like, the next day, I was so drunk,” Louis grimaces, “Went to look in my book bag and it wasn’t there, I fucking panicked. Still haven’t stopped panicking, if I’m being honest.”

“What did your mom say?” Harry puts his skewers down, points to Louis’ kebab, “Can I?”

Louis pushes his carton in Harry’s direction, “Haven’t told her.” He shrugs, “Won’t tell her.”

“ _Louis_.”

“ _Harry_ ,” he mimics, “I’d rather _die_ before I tell her I lost the present she spent so much money on, you understand? I’d die first.”

“What were you planning to do, then?”

“Going into my student overdraft, and then getting a summer job to replace it,” Louis shrugs, taking a bite of Harry’s seekh nonkebab. It’s surprisingly tasty. He takes another bite, “If it got turned down, then I don’t know. Borrow it from someone,” he pointed the skewer at Harry, “A loan shark, probably.”

“No,” Harry shakes his head, “You won’t need to. We’ll get the money.”

“We will,” Louis smiles. He remembers Harry buying breakfast for their flatmates in exam week, always asking if anyone needs anything, always sharing what he has. Either Harry is a good fucking person, or nothing short of a psychopath. “D’you have any idea where to start? Don’t think we should be back at Rainbow so soon as this weekend.”

“Oh, no, I won’t be here this weekend,” Harry swallows round his fish finger, “I’ll be home. Have you heard of Holmes Chapel? You probably haven’t, it’s really small. It’s just south of here, forty minutes by train.”

“Cheshire?” Louis gasps, mock offended, “Just when I was beginning to like you,” he smiles at Harry’s giggles, “Why are you going home so soon? We just got back from Christmas hols.”

They get interrupted by a group of lads entering the shop, talking loudly and making a ruckus. They remind him of his friends back in Donny. Is that how annoying they seem to everybody else?

Harry looks a bit red as he answers, “We’re, uh, celebrating my birthday? A bit early, ‘cos lectures start next week and I can’t go home in the middle of the week, so.”

“ _Harold_ , it’s your birthday next week? What day?” Louis smiles, “Can’t believe you haven’t said anything. What are the big plans?”

“It’s on Thursday,” Harry blushes redder, “I was going to tell you lot this week, see if we could go to the pub, or something.”

“Of course, obviously.” Louis nods, “Everyone in the flat will go, I’ll make them. Even Huda.”

Harry snorts, “Good luck trying to make Huda do anything.”

“Fair,” Louis concedes, “But I can definitely force the other five. Celebrate it proper,” Louis takes the last bite of his kebab. It was so fucking good, bless this place. “What about your ex-flatmates, then? Are they going?”

“Uh, no,” Harry looks away, embarrassed, “We haven’t parted in the best of terms? It’s sort of why I wanted to move out in the first place. Half of them were never in the flat and the other half was, like, really messy and sloppy. The kitchen was always inhabitable. The bathroom, even worse. One time, my mum was dropping by for a visit so I cleaned everything, but then they had a bunch of people over and the next day when she arrived, the whole flat was in a state, I was so mad.” Harry frowns, “That’s round when I decided to move out of there for this term, wherever I could.”

“Well, I’d be fucking pissed too, you have every reason to be.” Louis puts his elbows on the table, leans his head on his hands, “How are we all faring as flatmates, then? I know Niall shaves his pubes in the shower stall, it drives me crazy. He’s lucky I love him.”

“Oh, god, I did not need the visual,” they laugh, “You’re all great. I’m happy there.”

“I’m glad,” Louis smiles, “What about the people from your course, then? They’re all dead snobbish, or what?”

“No,” Harry chuckles, “I’ve got a few mates there. But they’re more of the _partnering up for a group project_ than _going out for a pint_ kind, you know? I haven’t talked to any of them since before the break.” Harry scratches his head, looks away, “I guess I didn’t really make new friends last term. I booked the train for this weekend a while ago ‘cos I wasn’t really looking forward to spending my birthday here.”

Louis can’t imagine getting here and being alone. With Liam and Niall, the three of them had attached themselves from day one like ticks on a dog, and even that wasn’t enough to completely quell his homesickness. The thought of Harry, living with people he didn’t get on with and dreading having to spend his birthday alone is– an invisible string tightens around Louis’ heart.

“Well, we’re only two weeks into _this_ term and you’ve already made seven well annoying friends, I’d say this is shaping up to be a very good birthday, eh?”

“Yeah,” Harry gives him a toothy grin, “And then we have Ireland in March. I put a countdown on my phone, look,” he pulls out his phone, where a countdown reads,  _49 days_. He named it with the  _Irish flag_ emoji, the  _four leaf clover_ emoji, the _clinking beer mugs_ emoji and two sets of _dancing men wearing bunny ears_.

Louis bites his lip and thinks, _this boy is too fucking cute for his own good._

*

 

 

> _You created group “HS19”_
> 
> _You added Nialler_
> 
> _You added Payno_
> 
> _You added Abbyshore_
> 
> _You added Anne flatmate_
> 
> _You added Lily flatmate_
> 
> _You added Huda flatmate_
> 
> _Huda flatmate 02:41_
> 
> **?**
> 
>  
> 
> _You 02:41_
> 
> **right, dwellers of flat 31!!**
> 
> **Harry’s birthday is february 01**
> 
> **next thursday!**
> 
> **so we have one week to plan the best surprise party ever**
> 
>  
> 
> _Nialler 02:42_
> 
> **Wicked!! Where r u guys, m8? Just knocked at your door**
> 
>  
> 
> _You 02:42_
> 
> **abduls**
> 
> **Harry just went to the loo**
> 
> **home soon**
> 
> **not a word about the party, ok??**
> 
>  
> 
> _Nialler 02:43_
> 
> **got it!! me and liam can be in charge of booze and the music**
> 
>  
> 
> _Huda 02:44_
> 
> **I can bake the cake? Once the others wake up we can divide the tasks proper**
> 
> **Great idea Louis!!**


	4. Chapter 4

A normal Sunday evening usually involves vast amounts of boredom and one or two existential crises, but this one carries the special weight of impending doom. The second term starts tomorrow and Louis will be resuming his lectures and seminars and workshops.

He’s bored out of his mind, has spent most of the day laying in bed with his legs propped up against the wall, trying and failing to pay attention to his readings. This semester he has four essays, one critical evaluation and only one piece of performance to look forward to, and the back of his mind is a long, dull moan as he methodically adds the due dates of all of his assignments to the calendar taped to the wall.

Out in the hall, the door goes. Louis pauses, biro in hand. Niall was last sighted on Friday, but he’s alive enough to repost TheLADBible memes on Facebook, so Louis doesn’t worry. Harry is still at his mum’s since he doesn’t have classes on Monday this term, the lucky bastard; Liam and the girls are home, but none of them went out yesterday. Their whole block is eerily silent, as if shrouded in collective mourning of their freedom.

The Student League resumes tomorrow, too, and Louis has missed footie but his weather app tells him he’ll play under rain and in single-digit weather. It makes him feel justified in his lack of enthusiasm, thank you ever so.

*

His first day of term is absolute _torture_ , as predicted, even though he only has one lecture at one p.m.

It’s raining, Oxford Road is backed up, the Samuel Alexander building smells like one big old book and all his professor does is explain the syllabus, which Louis has already read and marked. He goes through the contents of his thermos about forty five minutes into the ‘lecture’ and this guy behind him won’t stop sneezing.

Great first day. He’s so excited to be back in academia. So, _so_ excited.

As soon as the clock strikes three p.m. he’s rushing up Spa Street to catch his bus home – Liam has classes until six and Louis needs to be at the flat to get their Asda delivery with the alcohol and the ingredients for the cake.

As it stands, Niall has a mate who can lend them his guitar amplifier and the party playlist is a work in progress. Lily and Huda will see to the cake and party food; Abby and Anne are in charge of decorations. Louis and Liam are in charge of drinks – and by that he means they’ll mix their store-brand vodka with enough blackcurrant splash to mask the taste of cheap alcohol. A bonafide flat party.

Better yet, when divided between the flatmates, it’ll will cost each one of them only slightly more than a regular night out in the city.

He stores the baking ingredients in the girls’ cupboards, where they won’t arise suspicion, and frees space in the cupboard under the stairs to pile boxes of Asda Triple Distilled vodka, Asda Smart Price squash, Carlsberg and Carling (because they draw the line at store-brand beer. Louis will _stop drinking_ before he buys Asda Bitter).

Harry is due back in town any time now, and Louis is beyond relieved they’re getting their party supplies out of his sight before it happens.

*

Their team meets at six in one of the 3g pitches in the university’s Armitage sports complex, a blissful five minute’s walk from his flat. It’s dark out already, only the remaining wisps of dusky orange painting the horizon.

He plays in a recreational league organised by the Student’s Union – five-a-side teams where they pay to rent the pitch and no one is playing BCUS. It’s all for fun and it doesn’t require a lot of commitment.

Louis considers himself fairly decent at footie– good, even. Better than average. He could probably pass trials and get a place at the Athletic Union’s team, but that would mean dietary restrictions and training three times a week on top of a taxing exercise regimen, not to mention having to travel for the Away games. He doesn’t think his passion for footie would withstand the transition from _hobby_ to _duty_.

He hasn’t trained in nearly seven weeks, though, and it shows – his side is cramping barely half an hour into the drills and they’re all out of sync. Louis’ team, AC Me Rollin, is facing Crystal Phallus FC at half past eight today and they’re probably going to lose, since Niall is also rusty as fuck and the five of them couldn’t be arsed to meet outside of schedule to train.

*

“Up for a pint, mates?” Niall asks them as they’re grabbing towels and shower gels from their lockers after the game. They didn’t lose, miraculously, ending the game in a 2-2 tie.

It’s rained, and they’re all wet and muddy and sweat-soaked, rushing to the locker rooms as soon as they’re done shaking hands with the lads from the other team.

“Up for it, Nialler.” Louis smiles, claps him on the back as he rushes to the showers and doesn’t wait for the others. It’s way past the stage where his body cools down and his wet footie kit starts to feel like ice against his skin in the eight degrees weather.

Here’s the thing about growing up in Donny – Louis’ love of tracksuits has been ingrained from birth. Even through his _emo punk_ phase and his suspenders phase, the trackies have always been there, in the background, feeling as natural as a second skin. He’s not yet at the point where he fully owns up to it – dressing up still means _Toms_ and _Vans_ and black skinnies – but he’s acquired a bit of a collection in the three months he had an employee’s discount in _Sports Direct_ , and slipping one on over his hoodie when he’s freshly showered and dead sore from the game feels familiar and _so fucking good_ it’s almost criminal. Plus, it’s the Armitage – he blends right in. It’s not like any of the lads here will take notice of his outfit, he can wear whatever the fuck he wants and not be embarrassed about it.

Which is why, of course– _of course_ , he walks out of the locker rooms and Harry is there, leaning on one of the metal grids behind the goal posts in his stupid Chelsea boots.

Louis freezes mid-step, backing out behind one of the columns and pulling his hood up. He leans over to get a better look – Harry’s talking to a group of guys Louis vaguely recognises as being part of the Law Society’s football team; Louis has seen them around, they also train Monday nights, but in one of the astroturf pitches.

He has to pass them to get to the exit, is the thing, and he has to do it _fast_ , because once Niall gets out of the locker rooms there is no way he can walk by Harry undetected.

He takes a deep breath and gets ready to speed-walk his way out– but then he remembers Harry’s neon green trainers from last week and, really, who is he to criticise Louis’ choices in sportswear?

“Fancy seeing you so far from the weight room, curly,” Louis grins as he approaches him, hands stuffed in his tracksuit pockets.

“ _Louis_ , hey!” Harry’s smile lights up his face, “I was waiting for you.”

Louis blinks, “You were?”

“Yeah, just–” he says his goodbyes to his classmates and mentions for Louis to follow him into the exit, “I wanted to show you something and Liam told me that you and Niall were playing here. Thought I’d come meet you so you don’t have to go out twice.”

Louis blinks, “Where are we going?” And then mentally kicks himself for agreeing to it without so much as a protest. He’s not easy, Louis, or at least he’s not supposed to be.

Harry grabs him by the wrist and takes him towards the footpath that leads to Owens Park, leaving Louis to type a one-handed excuse to Niall.

*

“You have a _bike_?” Louis blinks, eyeing the motorbike parked in the bay. He’s no expert, but even though Harry’s is all black and sleek, it’s still not above the kind that you would expect someone their age to ride.

 _Still_.

“Yeah,” Harry shrugs, “Didn’t make a lot of sense to bring her, before, ‘cause parking in the main campus is a nightmare, but since we’ll be going to different pubs away from the centre, a bike makes more sense.”

Louis’ head whips back to him, “You expect _me_ to hop on it?”

Harry grins, clearly amused by the situation, the bastard. “I’m an excellent rider, promise. Brought her back from home myself, up the A34 and everything.”

“From Holmes Chapel?” Louis’ brow climbs up his forehead, “It drizzled all evening.”

Harry eyes him, “That’s what leather is for.”

Honestly, _fuck him_. Louis does _not_ need that mental image.

A bike in _Manchester,_ really. This kid will kill him.

“C’mon,” Harry sticks his key in and lifts the leather seat, picks up two helmets from inside of it.

They’re not even the big ones that wrap around your whole head and have visors. Louis is going to pop his clogs.

He tells him so, but Harry just laughs, “Louis, it’s a _scooter_. It doesn’t go faster than 50 miles per hour, you’ll be fine.”

Louis’ eyes narrow, “It doesn’t _look_ like a scooter.”

“Sleek, innit?” Harry grins, his chest puffing out, “It’s a Honda Vision 2013. Bought it myself.”

“With your baker wages?” Louis bites down on a grin when Harry looks at him in pleased surprise, “Oh, _shut up_. You say you were a baker three times a week. Haven’t made me _one_ parkin to prove it, though. Unacceptable.”

“Alright, it’s a date,” Harry’s nose wrinkles in his effort not to smile, “Now, though,” he thrusts one of the little black helmets in Louis’ direction.

*

The cold wind is sharp against them during the ride, Louis spending most of it hiding behind Harry’s larger frame, hands shoved in the pockets of Harry’s jacket. It’s not as bad as Louis thought it would be – _fun,_ even, if you forgot about the risk of imminent death for a while.

Harry stops the bike in a ginnel and Louis has _no idea_ where he is, only that they’re not close to the city centre, the skyline devoid of any building taller than three floors.

“Is this the part where you hand me over for a guy that’s going to harvest my kidney?”

Harry grins, “Thought you wouldn’t mind, you’ve got two of them after all.”

Louis rolls his eyes, “Where are we going?”

Harry points to the other end of the ginnel, “Pub, just round the corner.”

“Oh,” Louis blinks, “Are we starting, then?”

“If you want to,” Harry shrugs, “But actually, for today I just thought we could sit near the pool tables and observe, you know? Maybe play a round or two, just us.”

“Observe,” Louis purses his lips, “What, like, stalking the prey?”

“I think I prefer _marks_ ,” Harry quips, taking off his helmet and fluffing his curls, “It makes us sound like super-spies, or hitmen, no?”

Louis rolls his eyes, “You are so fucking weird, has anyone ever told you that?”

Harry steps into his space, fiddles with the clasp on Louis’ helmet, breath fanning over Louis’ face as he says, “You love it.”

Louis narrows his eyes, “I most certainly do not.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry turns his back to him, locks the helmets under the leather seat of the bike, “You keep telling yourself that, Tomlinson.”

*

On Wednesday evening, Niall knocks on all of their doors. “Alright, lads! I’m doing a bit of a tidy up.”

Louis puts his soul into his groan, mostly because Liam can’t quite bite down on his grin, terrible actor that he is, so Louis is left with the burden of selling their act.

Luckily for all of them, he’s aces at acting.

“Okay?” Harry frowns, “I don’t understand.”

“Someone tried to wipe sick off the carpet with Henry a while back.”

“Henry, the hoover?”

“Yeah,” Louis interjects, “It stinks of vomit whenever we turn it up, now. You haven’t hoovered your room yet, Harold?”

“You’ve moved in over two weeks ago, mate,” Niall says, wrinkling his nose a bit, and honestly, Niall should be in Drama with him. Bloody talented, the boy.

“Well, I mean,” Harry’s ears go pink. It’s adorable, and it almost tempts Louis into dropping the charade. Almost.

Louis claps his hands, “You can do it now, then. No time like the present.”

Harry nods, unsure.

“Just use a flip-flop to hold the door and open the window,” Liam comes out of his room, holding out two pairs of flip-flops. Honestly, who needs that many rubber sandals? It’s not like Louis uses his for anything other than showering, and only so he doesn’t have to think about stepping on Niall’s pubes.

The common areas of the flat are cleaned by halls staff every Friday, which means they won’t have to do any hungover cleaning, thank _fuck_ , but it also means everything’s a bit of a tip by Wednesday.

Louis would leave it as is, because it’s not like the flat isn’t going to end up a mess again after the party, but Huda and Lily had given him _the stare_. So, they needed a plan. Roping everyone, Harry included, into helping was the only way of making sure he didn’t get suspicious.

The whole part about Henry making their rooms smell like sick after it’s used is true, though. Louis has had his fair share of stupid decisions made while drunk but trying to hoover sick off a carpet is a bit much, honestly.

*

Louis is bloody _cold_ , half an hour with all the doors and windows in the flat wide open being enough to make him change from trackies into one of his favourite pairs of long johns, the grey ones he usually wears under his footie kit during winter. They’re a bit indecent on the crotch when worn by themselves but his vest is long, running to mid-thigh, so it’s not like he’s about to flash anyone.

The way Harry’s creepy frog stare follows him around as they tidy everything is definitely worth it.

“When’s your bird arriving, Nialler?” Liam asks from inside his bedroom.

Harry pokes his head out of his, “Oh, is that why we’re tidying?”

Louis carries his chair into the hall, freeing up his floor now that it’s his turn with Henry, “Make sure to look under the bed, might miss a spunk sock!”

“Fuck you, Tommo!” Niall yells from inside the bathroom. He’s been tasked with the shower due to his impolite shaving habits. Serves him well. “She’ll be here in a jiff.”

Louis gets back into his room, hitching up his vest to cover his nose as he turns Henry on, gets down on all fours to start hoovering under the bed. It’s where his mum always starts with when cleaning a room, so he supposes there must be some sort of logic to it.

Over the noise he hears Harry’s voice, “Louis, can you–”

Louis colours a bit at his position, arse up and stretching out his thermals as he bends down to try and make the hoover’s nozzle get in the corners under his bed. Like he’s doing yoga in a porn movie, or summat.

He can’t risk turning his head towards the door, though, or Harry’ll see his face in flames, so he does the mature thing and pretends not to listen, bends further until his chin is almost touching the floor, and contorts himself to move the nozzle along the back wall, gravity riding down his vest towards his armpits.

G _od_ , he must look obscene right now, but Harry’s still the creepy one, because Louis is inside the privacy of his own bedroom and only stretched out in a porno version of the puppy pose so he can reach under his bed, _ta ever so_.

Cleaning, he is.

He risks a look towards the door and Harry’s still there, frozen, a growing tent in his sweats. If they really were in a porno that’d be around the time when Harry would be ripping off his clothes and taking him right there on the floor, and _great_ , now Harry’s not the only one sporting a semi.

Louis stretches to turn the hoover off, “Yes, Harry?” He shifts position to sit on his ankles, insanely glad his vest pools at his lap.

“I–” Harry stutters, “I–”

Louis’ eyebrow climbs up his forehead. He’s pretty sure he looks more expectant than aloof, is the thing.

“Nothing, I’ll–” Harry gulps, his eyes on the wall somewhere just off Louis’ face, “I’ll be back when you’re finished.”

Louis lets go of a breath when Harry turns around and leaves, stretches to turn the hoover back on.

If he muffles a scream against the mattress, no one can hear it over the noise.

* 

The morning of Harry’s birthday dawns grey and gloomy, par for the course in their rainy city.

He knows Harry has lectures starting at nine – he’s had a peek at his timetable when he was planning ways to keep him out of the flat before the party.

The first lecture is from this module called _Obligations I_ – Louis has absolutely _no idea_ what is taught in it. Obligations of being a barrister? _Thou shall always appear to have a stick up thy ass. Thou shall wear a Santa robe and a white wig and look majestic while doing it._

That last one might be for judges. Louis is very knowledgeable in the British legal system. _Not_.

He slips out of his room, still sleep-mussed, tries the door across the hall – it opens into Harry’s dark bedroom. Louis grabbles his way to the window, draws the curtains. It doesn’t make much of a difference, what with it being only the first day of February and still pretty early in the day.

Louis’ first class is a seminar at one p.m. so Harry better _appreciate_ his willingness to wake up at the arse crack of dawn for him.

There’s only a mop of curls peeking out from the duvet, and Louis pushes it back until it’s clear Harry’s not wearing a shirt, the expanse of his back looking milky and almost _blue-ish_ in the morning light. Louis buries his hand in his curls, gently scratches his scalp until Harry blinks awake.

“Louis,” Harry smiles, lazy, voice like gravel. It does things to Louis’ insides.

“Happy birthday, curly,” Louis smiles back, continues to run his fingers through Harry’s hair until he closes his eyes and sighs in pleasure, looking ready to fall back asleep, “I got you a present.”

Harry’s eyes snap open again, “You did?”

“Yeah,” Louis grins, “Wanna see it?”

“‘Course,” Harry turns on his back, pulling himself up until he’s sitting against the headboard, duvet pooled around his lap. Even while sleepy and relaxed Louis can see the definition in his abs, and ain’t life unfair.

“Alright,” Louis sits at the edge of the bed, facing Harry, his other hand revealing a ring, a little bow he’s nicked from Abby wrapped around it, “You’re always wearing rings, so. This one made me think of you.”

It’s a silver ring of which the top is shaped like a rose, with leaves surrounding it and a little caterpillar inside. Louis had seen it in a charity shop in Withington and couldn’t resist it. “I know it’s bigger than the ones you usually wear–”

“I love it,” Harry smiles, “Thank you, Louis. Can I try it on?”

“Sure.” he offers him the ring, Harry taking it carefully and sliding it on his right ring finger. Louis tries not to read too much into it. It’s hard.

“It fits perfectly,” Harry smiles, “I love it, Louis.”

He leans over, and for a frozen second Louis thinks he’s about to be kissed.

He does get a kiss, but on his cheek. “I love it,” Harry repeats, looking down at his hand.

Louis bites his lips, fighting a wave of self-consciousness.

 _Friends_ , they’ve said.

He really, _really_ doubts Niall and Liam got Harry a gift, and he is positive that if they did, they wouldn’t be bringing it to him in bed, first thing in the morning.

Fuck, it’s probably really weird that Louis is here.

“Right, I’ve got to dash now, birthday princess,” Louis forces out a smile, “Won’t see you till the pub tonight, me thinks.”

“Alright,” Harry smiles back. He keeps running his thumb over the ring. “Thank you for my present.”

“You’re welcome,” Louis answers, already hurrying out of the room.

*

Louis pauses mid-tying to see the notification on his phone, one balloon in each hand.

 

_Payno @ HS19_

**Green lihgt !!**

 

“They’re on their way to the Armitage,” he says from his position on the floor of Anne’s room, balloon flowers strewn all around him. Niall, Huda and Lily are in her room mixing the ingredients for the cake and the brownies, Lily’s desk having been made into a makeshift baking station.

“Let’s tape these to the walls,” Abby gets up, holding an armful of flower balloons. They’re made by tying a pair of balloons together, then getting three pairs – where one of the six balloons is under-inflated so it’s round rather than oblong – and tying them together so the small balloon sits in the middle, and the other five act as petals. Quite ingenious, if Louis says so himself. He loves that they’re all putting in effort for Harry’s party.

He knocks on Lily’s door on his way into the kitchen, which, other than being clean from yesterday’s collective efforts, shows absolutely no sign of the upcoming birthday party – the preparations were all made inside their rooms so Harry doesn’t get suspicious.

Niall is the first one in after the three of them, turning both ovens on, “Alright, gonna get the rest of the booze so we can mix the drinks.”

Louis gives him a thumbs-up. Most of their beer is already chilling in the freezer because having one of their fridges with more beer than food is the norm, not suspicious. The bottles of vodka are the ones a bit harder to explain, but luckily they could be just kept inside their rooms.

“Here,” Anne hands him a pile of cutouts of Harry’s face, each roughly the size of his actual head. There are no repeated pictures as far as Louis can tell, it must’ve taken _ages_ for the girls to crop the individual contour of each of them. Louis is proud of their commitment to taking the piss out of Harry. “Tape one face to the middle of each flower, like this,” she demonstrates, taping one cutout where Harry is showing his tongue to the camera to the balloon in the middle, “And I’ll tape them to the walls.”

Louis considers himself a fairly good internet stalker and he has no idea from which photos half of these faces came. He is proud _and_ impressed. And a little bit terrified.

He’s hard at work creating several Harry-Flowers when Huda and Lily enter the kitchen, each carrying a baking tray full of batter, popping them in the already heated ovens. Huda claps her hands, “We’ve got some time before we have to make the frostings, need any help?”

“Yes!” Abby cries, “Help me detangle these, please.” She’s got at least five sets of fairy lights all tangled up in each other. They don’t look new, and Louis has no idea where they got them.

“How long do we have until they get back from the gym? I’ll need a shower,” Lily asks, sitting in the bench by Louis’ side and taking over taping the Harry masks to the flower balloons.

“Liam said they usually take an hour, but he’ll try to distract Harry to at least an hour and a half,” Louis bends to keep tying the flower balloons together, “And then Niall will text the house group that the boiler is broken and we’re all out of hot water, so that they shower there, too. So, two hours- _ish_ , I reckon?”

“We’ll be done with the decorations in fifteen minutes,” Anne says, standing on a chair and taping a Harry-Flower as high as she can reach, which is pretty high considering she is partly a giant.

Technically, they’re not supposed to tape or nail anything into the walls so that it doesn’t damage the paint, but it’s for a good cause. Plus, packing tape won’t rip paint off the walls, most of these flowers will be on the floor by morning, anyway.

“Cake and brownies will be all done in about an hour,” Lily adds, Huda nodding along.

“Great, great.” Louis smiles, “Niall and I will get his mate’s amplifier in Owens Park in twenty minutes, and then I think we’re all set.”

Huda frowns, “Why do we need a guitar amplifier, again?”

“It’ll act as a wicked speaker when we connect it to my iPod,” Niall grins from the counter, stirring a pitcher of blackcurrant splash, “Proper powerful, like.”

“Oh god, it’s _Thursday_ , we’ll totally get a disturbance citation for the noise.” Huda groans, but she’s smiling.

*

Liam does good on his task of keeping Harry in the gym as long as he can, his text warning that they’re about to walk home arriving at seven forty, after they’re all showered. It’s less than ten minutes from the Armitage to the flat, so they all scurry into the kitchen, cake on the table with lighter at the ready, lights off because their kitchen window faces the pavement.

Lily props the kitchen door open so they can hear the front door go, the six of them bubbling with anticipation as they shush each other in the dark.

Louis feels giddy with excitement. He whispers, “Are we shouting _happy birthday_?”

“ _No!_ ” Lily whispers back, flattened against the wall with one hand on the light switch, “We’re shouting _surprise_!”

Louis nods, even though she can’t see him, and they all wait with bated breath as unintelligible chatter filters from downstairs. There’s a twin set of footsteps ascending the stairs, and Louis hopes he’s not the only one who can’t bite down on his smile as the footsteps approach them.

As Harry’s silhouette pushes open the kitchen door, Lily turns on the light as they all scream, “ _Surprise!_ ”

*

Louis won’t forget the look on Harry’s face anytime soon. There was a millisecond where he looked spooked by the shouting, but then he brought his hands to palm at both cheeks as his face split in the most beautiful, wonderful smile, his eyes shiny before he hid them behind his hands and the girls all _awwww-_ ed, crowding around him for a group hug.

Liam moves for the lighter just as Louis picks up the cake, and they light the sparkles and the My Little Pony candle as they pull the chorus of _happy birthday to you_ , Niall snapping pictures like crazy.

Harry’s eyes are still suspiciously sparkly as he finally emerges from the hug, and Louis can barely sing around his smile, but it’s okay because they’ve all started singing it now and Harry’s smiling too, his dimples like craters.

There’s no name to describe the way Louis’ chest feels.

He holds the cake in front of himself like an offering and Harry looks at him over the light of the flames, their eye contact holding until the song is ending and Harry leans down to blow out the candles and barks out a laugh instead, only now noticing the big _Rainbow Dash_ on top.

They clap and whistle as Harry blows out the candle, Louis moving to put the cake back on the table as Harry starts receiving individual hugs and birthday wishes. When it is Louis’ turn for a hug Abby declares, loud, “The party was Lou’s idea, Hazza!”

Louis’ face goes up in flames as Harry’s smile turns impossibly wider. He steps into Louis’ space, one hand around his waist and the other round his shoulder, pulling them together until Louis’ grin is smushed against his shoulder, and if Louis closes his eyes as he hugs him a little tighter, then Harry will never know.

“Happy Birthday, Haz,” Louis whispers, turning his head and planting a kiss behind his ear. Harry shivers in his arms, and Louis can’t resist doing it again.

“ _Lou,_ ” Harry whispers, low, just for him, and buries his face in Louis’ neck in lieu of elaborating.

“Alright, alright, my turn,” Niall says, poking them in the side, making them break apart with a laugh.

Louis watches as Niall and Harry clap each other in the back, and then when he turns his head, Huda’s watching _him,_ with something to her expression that makes him feel bared, all of his secrets written on his forehead.

“Thank you, guys,” Harry declares, once they’re all hugged out, “This is amazing. You’re all amazing, thank you. I’m really glad I moved here.”

Another round of _aaaw_ ’s ensues, and this time Louis lets himself be pulled into the group hug.

*

“This is _amazing_ ,” Harry moans around his piece of cake, “All of it is amazing. Love the _décor_.” He grins.

There are about fifteen Harry-Flowers taped to the walls, fairy lights running along and twisting around them, held up by tiny pieces of Blu-Tack. The overhead light is off again, but with all the fairy lights lit up, the kitchen takes on a warm glow. It’s still bright enough to see the features of each individual Harry-Flower face, taped to the flower balloons and the fridge and the wall clock and the windows. Most of them are unflattering tagged photos where Harry is either drunk or pulling a face. It’s really embarrassing. Harry looks utterly delighted.

“Our pleasure,” Abby grins, fanning herself with a particularly funny one where Harry is wearing a blonde wig under a cap. Louis swore that one was photoshopped until the girls showed him the original. This boy, _honestly_.

“Hailee’s downstairs,” Niall looks up from his phone, “Someone carded her in, apparently. Is the flat door unlocked?”

Liam nods just as Harry startles, pulls out his own phone, “I invited some mates from my course to the pub with us,” he shrugs, sheepish, “Is it okay if I tell them to come here instead?”

“Obviously,” Louis smiles, “We wanted to cut the cake just the eight of us, but there’s more people coming later. It’s a party, remember?”

“Oh,” Harry smiles, pleasantly surprised, “Is that why there’s a giant speaker on top of the fridge?”

“It’s an amplifier, mate,” Niall says, jostling Louis as he pockets his phone.

In Oak House the flats have eight rooms but a six-seater kitchen table – because _fuck them_ , that’s why – and this is the first time they’re all using it at the same time. Niall, Louis, Lily and Huda, the smallest four, are squished in the wooden bench. Louis has to eat with his elbows pointing inwards.

He got the first piece of the cake when Harry cut it, and _Normal Louis_ would’ve taken the opportunity to be smug about it to the other six, but _This Louis_ only smiled and blushed and took the plate offered to him. He needs to get a fucking grip.

*

Louis sips at his beer as he scans the crowd, standing on one of the chairs they’d pushed up against the wall earlier. By ten, the music is on full blast and there are about thirty people squeezed together in their tiny kitchen, and Louis guesses at least a third hadn’t even _met_ Harry before today.

His mates from Law and the LGBT society are here, and so is the lot from the flat across the hall with whom Harry has become pals with. Other than that, Louis has the faintest clue. The door was left unlocked and there are people _everywhere_ , not just in the kitchen but in the hallway and on the stairs and in the hall of the lower bedrooms. A _third_ is actually a understatement.

Louis pats himself in the back for a party well-thrown, and hopes the other seven remembered to lock their bedroom doors.

Niall’s new girlfriend is a doll-faced American; and Anne’s _someone she’s been seeing_ turns out to be an equally tall girl named Aya, who Louis thinks would make an amazing _Mulan_. His heart says _Korean_ but his head says _keep your mouth shut, you know nothing_ – he’d learned that particular lesson very early into the school year, when Liam had assumed Huda was from Dubai upon meeting her, and then made things worse by justifying it on the basis that she didn’t have a student loan and ‘ _everyone in Dubai was loaded_ ’.

But, hey, at least it wasn’t a _racial_ stereotype. Small victories.

A movement by the door catches his eye. Harry’s on the doorjamb, motioning for Louis to come to him. Louis hops down to the floor, steadying himself on a stranger’s shoulder, and pushes his way to the door.

Harry touches his elbow and leans in, “ _Take a look at my door_.”

Louis furrows his brows but obeys, dodging a few couples snogging in the upstairs hall until he can go down the steps enough to peer over at the lower floor and _shit._ Liam and Lily are leaning on Harry’s door, beer bottles in hand and engaged in conversation that, though Louis can’t hear a thing over the music and the two hundred people in his flat, doesn’t seem peaceful.

 _Well_. At least he’s glad they both respected the implicit truce and waited to have that heart-to-heart once the party-planning phase was over.

He goes back up the stairs, “D’you think we’ll become a happy family or build a Berlin wall in the flat?”

Harry shrugs, “Hopefully the first one.”

He brings his bottle of beer to his lips, and while Louis is usually distracted by the way his mouth curves over it, under the fluorescent lighting of the hall it’s the rose ring that grabs his attention. Harry’s still in sportswear and Louis doesn’t know which option is worse – that he took the ring with him to the gym and put it on after showering there; or that, somewhere between _happy birthday_ and now, he’s gone into his room not to change clothes but to put the ring on.

Harry catches him looking and Louis feels a surge of _mine_ that, really, he’s got no right to be feeling.

*

The next time Louis enters the kitchen, the distinct smell of _marijuana_ lingers at the edges. Louis braves the crowd to look for the source, because he is one of the hosts and sharing is _polite_ , okay, but all he gets is his foot stomped on by a dancing guy – and really, it’s _Bruno Mars_ , calm down, mate.

When he crosses the room towards the window, he finds his flatmates on the bench, chatting. _Well_ – Niall, Huda and Anne are sat on the bench. Abby and Lily are dancing on top of the table and Louis sends a silent thank you to the universe that, _one_ , no one is wearing heels today, and _two_ , the table is bolted to the floor. The fewer broken necks during Harry’s birthday party, the better.

“Where’s your bird?” Louis asks as he plops himself in Niall’s lap.

“Planning ways to kill you for sitting in her man’s lap,” Huda answers for him.

Thing is, Anne has Aya sat on her lap and though his relationship with Huda has progressed eons since the start of term, they are not quite in the _casual lap-sitting_ stage of friendship yet, so Niall it is.

He winds an arm over Niall’s neck and twists so that he’s sat sideways, facing the other occupants of the bench, “He was mine first.”

Niall throws his head back and laughs, clearly well on his way to drunk, and pats Louis’ thigh, “She’s napping. Not used to Asda vodka.”

Louis nods, “Gotta build up a resistance to it.”

Huda laughs and uncaps her 7up, “I’ll be sure to help look for your dignities when we wake up tomorrow.” Niall _cackles_ , and _yep_ , that boy’s pissed.

“I’m glad you’re partying hard with us tonight,” Louis clinks his Carlsberg can with her 7up.

“Just ‘cause it’s Hazza’s birthday, don’t get used to it,” she laughs, “I’m gonna head in soon, anyway. Put my noise-cancelling headphones to good use and leave you guys to deal with Bobby alone.”

“Don’t _jinx it_ ,” Louis makes a face at her. Bobby is the RA on the night shift, usually the one that has to break apart the parties that get a lot of disturbance complaints. An inglorious job, Bobby has.

Lily crouches down on the table, “Hi, Louis. I told Liam off.”

“I saw,” Louis smiles, “Did it feel good?”

Anne unsticks herself from Aya’s mouth to ask, “You _did_?”

Niall frowns, “What did he do?”

Louis looks down at him, “My darling drunk boy,” he pats Niall’s blonde mini-quiff, “I’ll tell you in the morning, when you can remember it.”

“It felt pretty good, not gonna lie.” Lily abandons her crouching position to sit at the edge of the table, back turned to the party and legs dangling between Huda’s, “Hoodie, where did you hide the rest of the brownies?”

 _Hoodie_. Louis would be risking bodily harm for that one, but Huda only grins and rolls her eyes good-naturedly. This is all kinds of unfair. “How come you let her take the piss, but I can’t?”

Lily grins, smug, “Because I’m small and cute.”

“ _So am I_ ,” Louis cries, offended, “Niall, am I not small and cute?”

“For a guy, I guess you are,” Niall laughs.

Louis lifts his brows at Lily as if to say, _See?_ “Anne,” he calls, waits patiently for Anne to get out of her _Aya bubble_ and pay him some mind, “Don’t you think I’m small and cute?”

“Everyone’s small to Anne,” Huda interrupts, which, _fair_ , but not the point.

Abby gives up dancing and sits besides Lily, her legs crossed at the ankle because Anne’s side of the table has all leg space compromised, “ _Zup,_ yous.”

Huda frowns, “Are you sure you want to be sitting there? You’re wearing _baby blue_.”

Only then does Louis take notice of their outfits, and yes, Lily’s faux-leather skinnies seem much tougher against sticky tabletops than Abby’s light-wash jeans. Louis nods in agreement.

Abby looks down at the table, then shrugs, “What are we talking about?”

“Louis thinks he’s cuter than Lily,” Niall supplies.

“Eh, _no_.” Abby snaps her fingers, “Next question.”

“I didn’t say I was _cuter_ ,” Louis pinches the bridge of Niall’s nose, just because Niall hates it, “I said I was just _as_ cute.”

“Still a no,” Abby smiles, pinching Lily’s cheeks, “Look at that little angel. She’s the baby of the house.”

If Harry was here, Louis would win this argument, “Where’s Harry?”

Anne rolls her eyes, “And _I’m_ the whipped one,” Louis opens his mouth to protest, but Anne’s faster, “I’ll look for him on the way out, tell him you miss him terribly.”

Huda turns to look at her, “You can’t cop out yet, even _I’m_ still here.”

They all declare their agreement. Anne laughs, “I’ll be back! I’ll just take Aya to the bus stop.”

“So soon?” Lily frowns, “ _Stay_ , Aya, we’ve only just met you. I know Anne snores up a storm, but you can borrow Huda’s headphones.”

“Then _I_ won’t sleep!” Huda complains.

Aya says, “I have a test tomorrow, guys, maybe another time.”

Louis frowns, “A test? But we’re barely _a week_ into term! Geez, what course are you on, medicine?”

Anne closes her eyes in a mixture of a grimace and grin, just as Aya says, “Oh, no, I’m in sixth form.”

There’s a delay of a second in Louis’ reaction. “You’re still in school? _Anne_ , did you rob her from the cradle, you perv?”

“She’s _eighteen_!” Anne shakes her head. She was probably already expecting that reaction from them, “We were all eighteen only months ago, you moron.”

Louis ignores her, “I can’t believe you’ve resorted to stalking school girls,” he _tsks_ , faking disappointment.

“Oh my god, _stop_ , you’re making Aya uncomfortable,” Huda swats at his arm, turning to Aya, “This one talks a lot of shit, okay, just ignore him until he goes away.”

“You are _so_ mean to me,” Louis pouts, “D’you secretly have a crush on me or what, Hudson?”

This time the whole table bursts out laughing, and Louis needs to find new friends, _stat._

_*_

Anne walks Aya to the bus stop _and comes back_ in the space it takes Harry to come looking for them.

“Where were you?” Louis frowns, sipping on Lily’s abandoned glass of shitty blackcurrant vodka. He wants a beer, but the fridge is all the way across the room, and he’s too comfortable in Niall’s lap.

“Working the room,” Harry grins, then he relents, “Eating brownies in Huda’s room.”

Louis laughs, just as Liam comes up behind Harry. They’re _both_ still in gym clothes, only now they’ve lost the outer layer of their outfit too, and _really_ , their wardrobes are less than 30 meters away. “You two need to change,” Louis says, pointing at their loose tanktops, “You’ve pretty much got your titties out.”

“Don’t slut-shame them,” Anne says from besides him, just as Harry waggles his eyebrows at him and slides the strap of his tank aside to reveal a nipple. _Tease._

“Yeah,” Abby says from the other side of Anne, “Flaunt it if you got it, boys!” And, _god,_ they’re all so fucking _pissed_.

Liam strikes a pose and flexes both arms and they all hoot, including Niall, who shouts, “Flex it, Payno!” He laughs, “Harry, your turn!”

Louis bites his lips and lifts one eyebrow, trying to taunt Harry into a reaction as Abby claps and laughs, says, “Let’s see them abs!”

Slowly, very slowly, Harry deposits his beer on the table and lowers his hand as if to let it fall limp to his side, but then it changes direction, goes up, up, over his crotch and riding up his tank-top as his middle finger slowly brushes over his bellybutton towards his chest. It bares his stomach, his delicious, marble sculpted abs, the sharp V of his hipbones, and you can see he’s about to shit a brick from flexing so hard, but _god._ Louis is salivating.

“Magic Mike is missing a talent,” Louis comments, as sarcastic as he can manage, which isn’t very much at all. Harry grins, letting go of the fabric and letting it fall, not bothering to straighten it when it bunches around his hips and leaves a sliver of bare skin visible, his jeans riding low enough that Louis can see the darker patch of his happy trail even across the table, and usually Louis wouldn’t stare at someone’s crotch so blatantly, let alone _Harry’s_ , but he is just– too drunk to must the willpower to look away. _Fuck._

“You two should arm wrestle,” Niall says from behind him, making Louis jump slightly. God, it is a good thing _Louis_ is not the one having people on his lap. He pulls out the fabric of his T-shirt so it falls over his crotch, hiding it.

Harry tracks the motion, smirks.

Yeah, so he knows he’s attractive. Whatever.

“Don’t make Harry look bad on his _birthday_ , Niall.” Louis drawls.

Harry looks at him for a beat, then turns to Liam, inclines his head in a silent gesture of, _you game?_

Liam bares his teeth, already high on competitiveness, and they rearrange themselves so that Harry takes Anne’s place in the middle of the bench, Abby moves to Anne’s lap and Liam crouches down on the other side of the table, so their elbows touch the surface and they can grab each other’s palm.

Harry’s bulging bicep is very close to Louis, and this is _torture_. Sweet, sweet torture.

Abby leans over to put her hand on top of theirs, “Three,” she enounces, “Two, one, and go!”

It’s pretty evenly matched at first, Harry’s preeminent arm muscles and straining grunts providing Louis with quality wank material for weeks to come, but Liam starts to gain the upper hand, eventually, slowly lowering Harry’s forearm to the tabletop even as Harry puts up a good fight. When Harry’s hand is close enough to the table that it’s obvious he’s going to lose, Liam abruptly relaxes his arm and their hands move back like a pendulum, the back of Liam’s hand slapping the tabletop with the momentum and effectively handing over the victory to Harry.

They’re all hollering and Harry’s pouting as Liam winks at him and says, “Happy birthday.”

Wonderfully ridiculous, the lot of them.

*

Louis is in trouble. Louis is in _deep trouble_ , and it’s all the beer pong’s fault.

When Liam went to get them more beers and came back with a mountain of solo cups, Niall sprang up at the idea like an overexcited puppy, dislodging him. Louis leaned on the table to let Niall leave the bench, and was too slow to sit back down, because Abby was already pushing Harry over so _she_ could get off Anne’s lap, and Louis was left with a choice– sit back down, accepting Harry as Niall’s substitute, or, the most sensible option, get up to stand or try to find a chair.

As Louis is not a fucking sensible person _by a mile_ , he relaxes into Harry’s lap.

“Comfy?” Harry whispers by his ear, hand coming down to relax on top of Louis’ thigh.

“Not really,” Louis frowns, wiggles a bit, “Not a lot of cushioning, is it? What with your skinny legs. Even _I_ know you shouldn’t skip leg day, Harold.”

“Pretty sure your arse has cushioning enough for the both of us, and some more.”

“That it has,” Louis smiles, still wiggling.

Harry’s hand flies to his hip, digging his fingers in to make him still, “Don’t start something you can’t finish, Louis.”

In front of them, the game starts, not that Louis takes much notice. He’s in a world set apart from the party around them.

Louis bites his lip, twists his torso so he can look at Harry, his back turned to the other occupants of the bench. Their faces are so close he can see the individual beads of perspiration dotting Harry’s hairline.

He pulls his bottom lip out from between his teeth, slow, watches Harry’s eyes track the motion.

Louis murmurs, demure, “So you _don’t_ want the last part of your birthday present?”

He can see Harry’s throat working as he swallows. He’s speechless, and Louis is quick to decide, _this_ is just how Louis likes him best.

Harry makes to lean forward, stops, clears his throat. “ _I–_ ”

“Too slow,” Louis interrupts, winking and turning his back to Harry once again. It doesn’t come out as smooth as he wanted it to, mainly by virtue of Harry’s semi pressing against his bum, _god_.

He resolutely ignores the groan Harry lets out, the way he squeezes Louis’ hips almost painfully as he rests his head between Louis’ shoulder blades and pulls in a deep, fortifying breath. Thoroughly engrossed in the game, Louis is.

“I’m next,” he announces out loud, so Harry has at least a few minutes to picture some grandmas in lingerie before Louis climbs off his lap. He’s just generous like that.

He’s also not quite sure what he’ll do if Harry decides to take him up on it later, equal parts excited and terrified by the prospect.

*

“Guys, shuffle out, c’mon,” Bobby says from the kitchen door, over the collective _boos_ he gets from having turned the lights on and the music off, “It's a Thursday and term's started, c'mon, back to your flats.”

The crowd starts to thin out, some of them waving their goodbyes in Harry’s direction. Liam’s wall clock reads almost one a.m. and really, with the amount of noise they were making, Bobby actually took his sweet time coming to shut the party down.

Louis groans anyway, donning the rest of the beer in his cups as Anne does the same on the other side. His aim has been honed over years of pool and he’s been the undefeated champion of the last five rounds, going through Liam and Rooney and three other people he doesn’t know before facing Anne, the only one who was posing somewhat of a challenge. Shame.

He passes Lily and Abby on the corridor, standing in front of their doors, winking at them before going down the stairs and coming to stand in front of his own room.

“Tired, yet?” Liam asks him, sitting down with his back to his door. The downstairs carpet has come out relatively unscathed, only a few splashes by the front door. Louis is gathering the courage to take a peek at the bathroom.

“Sort of,” Louis shrugs, leaning on his door, “Gotta be at uni at ten tomorrow.”

“Mate,” Niall laughs from his own door, “I’ve got a tutorial at eight.”

They all grimace in shared misery, watching as Bobby herds the last of the party-goers down, “Keys, please, lads?”

They all tuck their keys in the lock and open their bedroom doors, proving that they do, in fact, live in the flat.

Sometimes, when the party is particularly good, they hide people inside their bedrooms and continue partying after Bobby’s gone, but, well, term _has_ started. Parties on weekdays don’t usually last until five.

No sooner Bobby has closed the front door behind him, Lily comes bounding down the stairs in her socks, Abby and Anne following behind, already changed into cozy sleepwear.

“Nightcap, lads?” She holds up a tupperware containing brownies, and her grin tells them these are the special ones.

Louis kicks off his vans inside his room, “ _Noice_ , Lils.”

Niall laughs, “Was that in the party budget?”

“No, all our treat, that,” Abby plonks herself in the middle of the hall, between Harry’s door and Louis’, fishing her phone out, “Get your dock for us, will you, Haz?”

Harry grins, emerges a second later with a docking station that he plugs in and sets on the floor, Abby connecting her phone to it.

“I know that song,” Louis comments, sitting down besides her. The music is not loud enough that it’ll bring Bobby back to their door, a mellow rhythm of which the name sits just beyond Louis’ memory, “Is that your _getting high_ playlist?”

“Aye,” she smiles, biting into one of the brownies and passing the tray to Louis, “Next up is Bob Marley.”

Harry sits down on the other side of her, “My baking playlist would be better,” he grins around a mouthful of brownie, “‘Cos, you know, we’re _getting baked_.”

They all groan at that, Anne stretching out to kick at him. It seems to be exactly the reaction Harry was seeking, judging by the way the dimples splits his cheeks. Louis has the urge to ask him if he’s enjoyed his birthday, if they managed to make it better than what Harry thought it’d be like, and he’s fucked, isn’t he? He’s utterly fucked.

Harry looks happy, though, so it’s a good compromise.


	5. Chapter 5

“I smell popcorn,” Louis accuses, pushing his way into the kitchen with a bang, “Who has the audacity of not inviting me to movie night?”

Harry startles and lets a handful of popcorn fall back into the bowl. “ _Erm_ ,” he mumbles, standing against the counter, hand frozen halfway to his mouth, “I’m not really going to watch anything. I just made popcorn, like, to eat.”

“I’m joking,” Louis lets out a little embarrassed laugh, blushing despite himself. He walks over to the kettle for something to do with his hands. “Niall usually makes popcorn when we watch something, I thought it was him.”

“Oh,” Harry turns around to face him, his mouth twitching a bit before he asks, nonchalant, “You do that often?”

“ _Eh_ , sort of,” Louis shakes his head, “It’s not a regular thing, or whatever. Just when there’s something running that we’re looking forward to, usually. Last time was to watch Stranger Things, I think? Or Peaky Blinders.”

Harry nods, “Cool.”

He nods again after he says it, his eyes flitting to Louis’ for a fraction of a second.

“D’you have a suggestion for the next one?” Louis asks, noncommital, biting the inside of his mouth to keep from smiling. “Fair warning, though, Liam’s room smells a bit dodgy.”

The dimple makes a split second appearance before Harry’s mask of casual interest is back on.

“Not right now, but I’ll think of something, yeah. We can–” he clears his throat, “We could do it in my room, if they’d rather?”

“Oh, but Liam’s got this huge computer screen, ‘cos, you know, Computer Science,” Louis pours the hot water over their mugs, accepts the milk Harry wordlessly offers, “ _Ta_ , love – You can bring that iPod dock _thingy_ you have, though, makes for better sound.”

“Done,” Harry’s nose crinkles with his grin as he accepts the tea, “D’you want some popcorn?”

“Are you, like, really into it, or what?” Louis grabs a handful of popcorn from Harry’s bowl. “Who even eats popcorn for tea?”

“I’ve been busy,” Harry shrugs, “I’ll make something decent tomorrow.”

“I don’t understand you,” Louis huffs out a laugh, “One day you’re like, _protein shakes_ and _green smoothies_ and _egg whites_ ,” he makes a face, “And the next you’re eating popcorn because your shelf in the fridge is completely empty.”

Harry grins, “I’m a complex man.”

Louis tilts his head to the side, picks up a kernel. “I can see that.”

Harry relents, “My motivation to eat healthy fluctuates, is all. Like, right now, I’ve got so much coursework that just, like, walking to Sainbo’s, deciding what to eat, picking stuff out, coming back, cooking––Like, _not today_.”

Louis can relate.

“Alright.” He grins, steals one last handful. “Get your lazy arse back to your coursework, then.”

Harry sighs, long suffering and dramatic as he turns for the door, armed with popcorn and tea. “Yeah, yeah. Thanks for the tea.”

Louis waits for the sound of footsteps down the stairs before he bends down to the freezer, muttering a belated _sure, love_ , as he eyes the contents of his shelf with a critical eye. Shoved behind the frozen pizzas and fish fingers and Yorkshire puddings, there’s an unopened bag of mixed veggies that Louis suspects has been in there ever since his mum did him the big shop to get him settled here, in what Louis concedes was wishful thinking on her part.

He fishes them out along with the Yorkshire puds, which means this meal is, like, half a Sunday roast already if Louis doesn’t fuck up the instructions. His remaining options are somewhat scarce. Louis barely ever buys fresh food– it’s always more expensive than the frozen version, yes, but even he can admit it’s mainly because he’s dead lazy and going to the shops every three days sounds like actual hell, not to mention chances are it’ll go bad before he actually gets around to cooking it.

The upside, though, is that he’d have to avoid Asda with some dedication to get to the point where he actually runs out of shit he can thaw and eat. Clearly Harry needs some lessons on how to be a lazy uni student.

He gets out the beans and the mashed potatoes, and finally the breaded chicken breasts, because Harry’s always eating those. Granted, Harry buys them fresh and unseasoned, and the breading probably defeats the purpose of it being for _fitness_ , but that’s just not the kind of person Louis is. He’s always loved breaded everything, but ever since uni and being in charge of his own meals, he has developed a newfound appreciation for the breaded meat section at the shops because, truly, it’s just so _convenient_. Shove some fish fingers up his arse, honestly, that’s how much he loves it, so if Harry complains, see if Louis ever feeds him again.

*

Louis resurfaces from his _Dryden-induced_ trance at the sound of a pained groan, the words going a bit out of focus as he blinks, his mind slow to come back from ‘ _Politics and Poetry in Restoration England: The Case of Dryden's Annus Mirabilis_ ’. There are chalk fingerprints all around the ancient kindle he’s inherited from his mum – _couldn’t get used to it, Loubear, it’s just not the same as paper_ – and his own foot is going numb from where Louis is sat on it.

To his right, Harry lets out a second pitiful-sounding noise.

“You okay in there, love?”

“ _No_ ,” he sulks, nose pressed to his book’s gutter, “I hate this module.”

“Look alive, curly,” Louis’ index finger pushes into Harry’s cheek, right at the spot he knows the dimple’s hiding, leaving a chalk fingerprint behind, “It’s only the middle of February. You’re not supposed to start whining _at least_ until six weeks into term.”

“Oh, really,” Harry smiles, reluctant, proving Louis’ estimation of the dimple’s location was entirely accurate. _Precise_ , Louis is. “Must’ve skipped that part of the student handbook.”

“Can’t believe you actually read that thing,” Louis pulls his hand back, suddenly self-aware. He doesn’t know _when_ his hands decided it was okay to keep touching Harry, and why they didn’t bother to consult him. “Let me see what you’re reading.”

Harry rolls his head to the side, hand coming up to lift the cover of the book off the tabletop. It reads, _Comparative government and politics: an introduction_.

Louis frowns, “That looks boring as _fuck_ , mate.”

“Cheers,” Harry answers, dry. He smushes his face against the pages some more, “Maybe I can learn through osmosis.”

Louis lets out a weak chuckle, hand coming down to pat Harry’s curls in sympathy.

 _Mary D's_ is the chosen haunt for the day. They got here right after the lunch rush, playing a single _recon_ match so Louis could test out the weight of the cues, before settling down with their coursework in a secluded corner, right by the foosball table so they could watch both the pool table and the movement in the main salon.

Harry’s prediction turned out to be right –no hardcore fan goes to the trouble of coming to a pub as close as 300 meters from Manchester City’s stadium _on game day_ , not if they can just walk down the road and watch the thing live. They’re banking on a victory to lift the mood and open the wallets of all the Man City fans who are about to leave the stadium and swarm the pub.

“ _City_ is winning by two,” Harry comments, clearly on the same wavelength as Louis, “We should pack them books up soon.”

“There’s time,” Louis pops a cold chip in his mouth, “We’re only seventy minutes in, and the referee’s gonna give at least five for overtime. Go study.”

Harry sticks his tongue out at him, but he pops his headphones back in and obediently goes back to his textbook. Good boy.

*

Once the match is over and the pub starts filling up with the City fans who were just at the stadium, they don’t have to wait much for the first mark. Middle aged and drunk, the man comes up to them on unsteady legs, beer sloshing in his pint glass. Says he wants to shoot some pool, waits as Harry and Louis wrap up the game they were pretending to play.

Harry shoots with as much skill as he actually possesses, still barely managing it most of the time. Louis gets a good shot in for every three mediocre ones and takes his time. He can’t look like he’s in a rush to play the man.

When there are still three balls on the table, Harry starts the small talk. The game, the weather, the tories, the reds. They bond through complaining, enough that it doesn’t even seem suspicious when Louis suggests putting in a tenner and Harry eggs the man on.

Louis turns ten into twenty, then into thirty. The man begs out of a third game, and this is where Harry shines– he goes back on the table and taunts Louis into betting all thirty quid he’s just won. The man sticks around to watch them play, orders another round.

Louis wins, but makes it look like it was by a sliver. Downplaying his skill to Harry’s level is honestly harder than pulling off a _Yo Yo Masse_ trick shot, but he sways and bends and leans on the table and pretends the pint glass in his hand is not the same one he’s been nursing since he started playing. _Rematch_ , the guy says, pulls a twenty quid out of his wallet with slightly unsteady fingers. Louis almost feels bad.

Then he remembers the guy calling the referee a _bloody poofter_ , and the flash of guilt is gone just as soon as it came.

*

Owens Park is quiet as they pull up in the motorbike bay.

“That guy was a fucking _prick_ ,” Louis says over the ringing silence that follows the bike’s ignition being turned off. He waits until Harry drops the kickstand, steadies himself on Harry’s shoulders as he climbs off the bike. He’s still not entirely used to it, but it’s getting easier.

“Which one?” Harry laughs, sarcastic. He takes off his helmet and shakes out his curls.

“The first one,” Louis unclips his own helmet, offers it back to Harry, “Forty-quid guy.”

It’s not like he didn’t hear this kind of shit back in Donny, but being in uni has made it harder to make excuses for them. Harder to brush it off, bite his tongue.

Harry grunts out his agreement, bending to lock the helmets in the storage under the bike’s bench. He looks hilarious in one of Louis’ tracksuits, the bottoms too short for him and tucked into his white socks. They’ve turned out to be great windbreakers, though, making the bike rides bearable whilst also not drawing attention to them inside the pubs– or at least not as much attention as the leather gear surely would draw.

“I’m starved,” Louis says as they cross the little court that opens into the footpath leading to Squirrel’s, “D’you want to do us that pasta with the garlic you did last week? I reckon I’ve got some breaded fish for sides.”

“I’m not eating fish fingers for tea again,” Harry warns.

“ _Actually_ , I’ll have you know they’re Haddock fillets,” Louis sticks his chin out, smug, “I was going to get salmon but I didn’t know if we could just stick them in the oven or if we had to, like, season them or summat.”

“Pretty sure all the fish in the frozen aisle come ready to pop in the oven,” Harry muses, twirling his bike keys between his fingers, “Alright, pasta and fish, I’m sold. Some chips while we’re at it.”

Louis rolls his eyes, “And I’m the weird one for _pasta and beans_ , alright,” watches as Harry’s head whips around to him, gearing up to retort, and Louis can’t quite hide his grin.

He knows he winds Harry up something rotten.

Not his fault Harry looks hot while worked up, that’s all Louis has to say for himself.

*

Their block is buzzing with a crowd when they let themselves in, dodging people as they go up the stairs, just another Saturday night in halls.

“Hey, neighbours!”

Louis looks up to spot Lyle, the huge bearded guy that lives on twenty-nine, the flat below their own, “Hiya, Lyle.”

“We’ve got some people round, like,” he thumbs back to the closed door to his flat. It’s pulsing with electronic music, “If you lads want to pop down later, ey?”

It’s a diplomatic invite– asking all the neighbours round greatly decreases the chances of having Bob called on their arses.

Harry comes up behind him, puts a hand on his shoulder, “Nah, thanks, mate, but we’re knackered.”

Louis nods in agreement, “We’ll let Liam and Niall know, though.”

“Alright,” Lyle nods, easy, “Cheers, then.”

They continue to climb the stairs to the flat, feet heavy with exhaustion. The muscles under Louis’ right shoulder blade are burning from the repetitive games of pool, and he groans when Harry digs his thumb in as he waits for Louis to unlock the door to his room, “D’you still have some of that Elastoplast?”

“Yeah,” Harry says, thumb moving to the tendons on Louis’ neck, “I’ll set you up after you’ve showered.”

Louis frowns, “What, do I smell, or summat?”

“Badly,” Harry quips, dodging out of Louis’ nipple pinch just in time, “Nah, but the hot water will help, you know?”

Louis sighs in pleasure as he finally drops down into his chair, feels the satisfying _pop_ in his neck as he stretches it. He unzips his tracksuit jacket and reaches into the inner pocket, drawing out a crumpled bundle of bills.

“These drunkards have _no respect_ for money,” Louis tuts as he starts to sort the fives and the tens into order, “Look at the state of th–what are you doing?”

Harry looks up from untying his shoelaces, tracksuit bottoms around his ankles in the middle of Louis’ _bedroom_. “Returning the trackies?”

Louis turns his attention back to the bills, pointedly ignoring Harry’s tiny, _tiny_ black briefs.

“Can’t decide if I should be insulted by you jumping out of my trackies the minute we’re through the door,” he snaps the bills and folds the thin stack in half, starts to count it, “Or if it’s just ‘cos of your nudist tendencies.”

“I love your trackies,” Harry smiles, sat down on Louis’ bed as he kicks them off, “How much, today?”

“Minus your forty? Clean seventy,” Louis answers, thumbing out two tenners and holding them out to Harry along with his initially invested forty quid.

The knock on the door makes him jump and stuff the money back into his jacket in a flash, Harry bursting out in laughter.

Louis blushes, ‘cos, yeah, it’s not like they’re shifting briefcases full of cash around like a couple of crime bosses or summat, but he’s paranoid, alright. “Come in!”

Anne and Huda shuffle into his bedroom. “Lou– hey, Hazza– we can come back later?” Anne says, eyes flitting between a shifty-looking Louis and a scantily-clad Harry. He can’t blame her for making the assumption.

“No, it’s alright,” Harry picks up his trainers and gets up, “I was just out to the shower, anyways.”

Anne’s eyes flit down to the tiny black pants and then back up, her ears pinkening. Huda’s suddenly very interested in the ceiling plaster.

“Actually,” Anne says, “We wanted to talk to the both of you, I was going to your door next.”

“Oh, okay,” Harry sits back down. He at least has the grace to pull one of Louis’ pillows into his lap, atta boy. “What’s up?”

“Okay, so,” Huda leans on his desk and crosses her arms, while Anne sits down at the foot of his bed, “We sort of have a favour ask. How are your weekend plans for the next few weeks?”

Louis and Harry share a look. Pool, but it’s not like they have a set a schedule. “I’ve nothing planned.”

“We have the, um, the tickets to the match,” Harry shoots him a look, “City vs Chelsea, on the fourth, I think?”

“Right, no, it’s before that,” Anne sighs, “So, it’s my best friend’s birthday in two weeks and she’s having a party, so I’m going home for the weekend, and I invited the girls to come with.”

“Thing is,” Huda continues, “I think maybe me sleeping over in Liverpool would start some family gossip, you know? Like, my parents are chill,” she pauses, “Well, chill- _ish_. Like, they let me study abroad _but_ it has to be in Manchester where my dad’s aunt lives, _but_ they didn’t make me live with her and let me pick a mixed-sex halls, so...”

She shrugs, “Like, they wouldn’t have a problem with me going, but the old hag would.” Huda frowns before continuing, “She watches me like a fucking hawk. But I still have more freedom here than I would at home.”

“I think we all have more freedom here,” Harry nods in sympathy, “Mum is like, a total helicopter parent. That still sucks, though.”

“Oh, it does,” Huda laughs, “I _really_ want to go, though, even if it’s to come back the same day, so me and the girls bought same-day return tickets.”

“I was thinking, though,” Anne pauses, “I’m taking Aya with me, I think, ‘cos, like, my friends all want to meet her, and the only way my parents will stop calling it a fucking _phase_ is if they actually see me with a girlfriend, you know?”

“Bold,” Louis nods, “I’m impressed, Annie.”

“Yeah, I’m not sure how they’ll react, though, so it’d be best to have other people sleeping over as well, ‘cos there’s _no way_ they’ll make a fuss if there’s other people around, you know?”

Huda continues, “And you two would have to be the ones to sleep over, because, like, I really like you lads but if I’m trying to avoid family drama it’d be better if Abby and Lily were the ones to come back with me, ‘cause they’re girls, you know?”

Louis’ eyebrows draw up, eyes innocent and round, voice airy as he muses, “I don’t think I remember being asked if I wanted to go when these plans were being drawn up in the first place, do you, Harry?”

“Wanker,” Anne smiles, “We weren’t even friends when I bought the first tickets, it was right after I came home from hols. It’ll be wicked, come on.”

“I don’t know,” Harry ponders, “We’ve been friends for a while now, I’m a bit offended you didn’t think to invite us until you needed a buffer, I’m not _sure_ –Alright, _fine_.” He’s given away by his smile, Anne fist-pumping the air.

“Well, I have a condition,” Louis announces, waits until everyone’s attention is on him before he turns to Huda, “Say that you like me again,” Huda fixes him with a bored stare as Anne huffs out a laugh and gets up, going for the door, but Louis doesn’t even blink as he waits, “Come on, then.”

Huda heaves a deep sigh, but she’s smiling as she says, “I really like you, Louis, even more than I want to strangle you. Will you please come to Liverpool with us?”

“Well, love,” Louis gives her a prize-winning smile, “Since you’re begging and all.”

She flicks his nose before following Anne out the door, “Okay, you two can go back to shagging, now.”

“We weren’t–” Louis starts, but the door has already closed behind them.

*

Louis startles awake at the sound of a knock on his door, his head lifting off the pillow in reflex and making his neck pop painfully.

“Pizza time, lads!” Liam’s voice booms out in the hall.

Louis blinks, his eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness in the room. He doesn’t remember falling asleep. He rolls onto his side, paws under his pillow for his phone.

“Fuck’s sake,” he groans. Middle-of-the-day naps only make him feel worse off after waking up. His Lit workshop today was actually really interesting, but the _Theory and Text_ lecture that followed was soul-crushing, and his body clearly decided it needed the rest.

He pulls on a hoodie before padding out into the hall, and then into the open door of Niall’s bedroom.

“Hey, Lou,” Niall says around a mouthful of chips. ‘ _Course_ he’d make a head start into his _Meal4One_ combo.

Louis makes a beeline for his bed and curls up into a ball around his duvet, grunting out an acknowledgement.

He’s almost falling back asleep when Harry pads in, “Which one of these has no vinegar?”

Niall shrugs, “Liam was the one who got them, mate.”

Harry seems to notice Louis curled up in Niall’s bed, and he grins, “Sleepy already, Lou? It’s barely nine.”

“Jus’woke up,” Louis mumbles, fisted hand rubbing at his eye. “I hate napping.”

Harry bites his lip around a smile and sits down on the bed, taking the duvet off Louis’ arms and replacing it with his own body. Louis’ stomach does a backflip as Harry cozies up to him, his back to Louis, and brings Louis’ arm to wrap around his neck.

Niall squints dangerously. “No funny business in my bed.”

“Get your mind out of the gutter, Horan,” Harry mutters, scooting down the bed so that he can fit the top of his head under Louis’ chin, making it so that Louis would swallow some curls if he were to open his mouth.

 _Fuck_ , but his hair smells so good. Louis closes his eyes and inhales under the guise of a sleepy sigh, the scent of _Harry_ filling him up. He can’t help but rub his cheek against the crown of Harry’s head, just a little.

“Aw, look at the two of you,” Liam grins from the doorway, bottles of condiment in hand. Louis shifts the arm under Harry’s head just enough to flip him off, “… and for that I’m using your ketchup.”

“Oh, no, not the Heinz,” Louis fake-pleads, “It’s my only luxury.”

“ _Lies_ ,” Niall laughs, “You called me a philistine when I tried to buy rice Snaps instead of rice Krispies.”

“That’s different,” Louis frowns, “Cereal is very serious business. Innit, Haz?”

Harry snort-laughs, his shoulder shaking with the motion, “So now that you want me to back you up, my opinion on cereal matters? I thought I was Jon Snow, and knew nothing?”

“Oh, god, I forgot you think _granola_ counts as cereal,” Louis groans.

Liam puts their bottles of ketchup, mustard and mayo on Niall’s desk by the pizzas. “Granola _is_ a cereal–”

“And what do _you_ know about cereal, Lionel? Who told any of you lot you got to have an opinion on ce– _Ow_ , _Harry_!” Louis pulls his arm back, looking outraged at the teeth imprints on his wrist, “You curly-haired _cunt_ , that _hurt_!”

Harry turns to face him, eyes slitted dangerously, “What did you just call me?”

Louis props himself up on his elbow, gearing for attack, “I _said,_ you _curly haired–No!”_ Harry goes for the ribs, stupid long fingers ticklish even over his hoodie, making Louis jump away and into the wall.

“Mind the pizzas!” Liam warns, pushing the stack of boxes away from the line of fire.

“ _Unhand me_ , you curly ha–” he pushes out between giggles, “You _curly hair-_ ”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Niall makes a resigned grab for Louis’ ketchup bottle, “One of them is going to jizz in my sodding sheets.” He shakes his head, warns, “If you two break the bed you’re going to pay for my guitar, I’m telling you.”

Harry looks up from where his roaming hands are digging into Louis sides, his body pinning Louis to the mattress. “You have a guitar?”

He spares Louis a look, “I’ll get you later,” and jumps out of the bed, crouching down to look under it. “ _Sweet._ ”

Louis is still trying to catch his breath when Harry resurfaces with an acoustic guitar, unzipping it off its gig bag and settling it over his knees. He fiddles with the strings and the first chords of a song fill the room.

“D’you play, Harry?” Niall perks up, shifting on his chair.

Belatedly, Louis realises he’s hard. He makes a grab for the duvet and pulls it over his lap under the guise of balancing a pizza box over it. Harry’s side glance and accompanying smirk tells Louis he definitely felt it, before.

“I play some,” Harry nods, “My older sister Gemma had a short-lived guitar phase when she was a teenager, but she lost interest, and then it was just lying around the house for ages, so I picked it up. It’s still at home, though. Can’t bring it here since it’s still technically hers.”

“Cool,” Liam smiles, “I’ve always wanted to learn. Play us something, then.”

“Yeah,” Niall agrees, vacates his spot on the chair and climbs into the bed with Louis, “Go on, Haz.”

Louis pulls one of the pizza boxes into his lap and one into Niall’s, who nods his thanks. Harry is slightly pink as he gets up from the floor and settles into Niall’s vacated chair, adjusting the guitar on his thighs before starting.

He strums out the first notes, pulls in a breath, _I don’t know if you can take it;_ waits a few seconds before, _know you wanna see me naked;_ Louis’ heart starts to pick up rhythm, and fuck, Harry can sing, too, _I just wanna be your baby, but I can’t be around you._

He stops the chords with his palm, and there’s a beat of silence before he continues, _When I’m with you all I get is wild thoughts–_ Niall picks it up, _wild, wild wild,– When I’m with you all I get is wild thoughts –wild, wild wild,–_

He looks up and straight at Louis when he says, _When I’m with you all I get is wah- When I’m with you all I get is wah- When I’m with you all I get is wild thoughts._

*

Louis holds the box of washing powder up to his nose for close inspection, his brows furrowed in concentration. “Are you _sure_ it’s okay if I just chuck it in, on top of my clothes, just like that?”

Two washing machines over, Harry dumps the rest of their whites into the drum and ignores him.

“ _Harry_ ,” Louis doesn’t whine, “D’you want me to fuck up all of our clothes?”

“ _Louis_ ,” Harry mimes, “I’ve already shown you how to do it two times. Now, give over playing dumb ‘cos I’m not doing all of the work for you.”

“Yeah, Harry, show him who’s boss,” Abby pipes from her spot by the window, laying across three commandeered chairs with her earphones plugged in.

“Oh, _sod off_ , Abigail,” Louis turns to her, “I’ve carried your laundry bag all the way down here, least you could do is help me figure this thing out.”

Abby sighs, making a big show of heaving herself up and dragging her feet over to him. “Right, what part of doing the washing is so mysterious to you, my dear man-child?”

“The little pocket where you’re supposed to put the washing powder is all clogged up, look, all the machines are. This laundry room is disgusting.”

Abby blinks at him, “Have you _really_ not done any laundry at all since you got here?”

Well, when she says it like _that_. “I’ve never had to ‘cos Liam always lost our bets, but now he’s fucking evading me–”

“He’s not evading you,” Harry interrupts, short. Pretty obvious he’s still mad at Louis. “Just this weekend the lads wanted to play, but you begged out of it because you wanted to–” he sees the look Louis’ giving him, “–sleep.”

“Sleep, huh,” Abby smiles, “Is that what the gays are calling it these days?”

Louis rounds on her, “Are you gonna tell me how to clean these, or not?”

“Clean them?” She makes a face, “ _God_ , no. Just put the washing power in with the clothes, it’s the same thing.”

Louis frowns, “But it’s gonna stain, and get all clumpy.”

“Only if you just dump it all in one place,” she reaches down and scoops out some of their clothes back into the Ikea-bag-slash-hamper, “You have to sprinkle it on top, like this,” she shakes Louis’ mostly unused box of Persil over the clothes inside the drum so that they’re all evenly covered in powder, “And then you put the rest of the clothes in.”

“Ah, okay, _that_ makes sense.”

Behind him, Harry makes an offended noise, “That is _literally_ how I taught you earlier.”

Louis frowns, “No, it isn’t, you told me to just chuck it in with the clothes. These machines are two-hundred-years-old.”

“Jesus _fuck_ ,” Abby rolls her eyes, “Why don’t you two try keeping your marital troubles in the bedroom, eh? All afternoon you’ve been bickering like a pair of– Oh my _god_ , what _is_ this?”

Louis whips his head around to watch her fish out a pair of briefs with the tips of her fingers, tiny and red and with a zip running down the front. He bursts out laughing. “Don’t look at me, that’s Harry’s.”

Harry walks over to them to investigate, turning a delightful shade of pink when he sees what Abby’s holding. “I was running out of clean underwear, don’t–”

Abby jumps out of his reach when Harry tries to snatch the pants back, holding it up and turning it around, “Is the zip supposed to be for your knob or your bum?”

Harry’s blush deepens, making a second attempt at snatching the pants back, but Abby is Newcastle-scrappy, which is almost as good as Doncaster-scrappy.

“No, seriously,” she continues, holding them up for Louis to see, “Wouldn’t it be easier to just push them down?”

Harry smirks, “Yeah, well, sometimes Louis gets impatient.”

Louis’ laugh dies on a cough as Abby lets go of the pants as if they’ve turned radioactive, speeds-walking to the sink as she chants _ew ew ew_ and, seriously, what the _fuck_ , Harold.

*

Abby’s petrification at the possibility of having touched their hypothetical dried semen makes her a rather useless buffer, and so the walk back to the flat is still filled with the same vaguely ominous tension that has followed him and Harry around since the last hustle. Louis just– he doesn’t understand what’s the big _deal_. So he went off-script and flirted with one of the marks, so what? They left the pub with a hundred-pound clean profit, so clearly it _worked_. Harry’s such a sulky baby sometimes, honestly, if things don’t go his way he can turn into a giant pissing–

“Oh, _fuck’s sake_ ,” Abby groans, elongating the _a,_ Louis following her line of sight to the entrance of their block, where everyone is huddled around in various stages of undress, “How hard is it to just use the cling film before you light one up, man?”

“Kate said it was a fire in twenty-seven’s kitchen, actually,” Anne says as soon as they’re close enough to hear, “But I bet it was just someone trying to make chips in a pan or summat, not, like, a _fire,_ fire.”

“Nah,” Abby says, inspecting the windows of their building, “It’s always some _dafty_ who thinks opening the window is enough to smoke inside.”

Louis rounds their group of flatmates, standing around the grass in their Sunday best, until he is literally as far away from Harry as he can while still being part of the conversation.

Niall seems to notice his folded Ikea bag, “Were you doing your washing?”

 _God_ , don’t these fuckers _love_ to make a big deal out of everything. “Yes, Neil, I was doing the washing, big deal, shut up.”

“Wow,” Niall smiles, unfazed, “Harry really is straightening you up.”

“Pretty sure he's doing the opposite,” Huda pipes, eliciting a collective snort.

“Harry is doing absolutely nothing of the sort,” Louis announces, and stalks away in the direction of the occupants of flat thirty, the back of his neck burning.

*

“Listen, Lou,” Anne corners him by the kitchen door, “Is your row with Harry serious?”

It’s early, and Louis is late for class. “What row?”

“Don’t play dumb,” she pokes him, “You two have been all weird since the weekend. I’m just saying, like– _okay_ , not to sound like a prick, right, but Liverpool is this weekend, and it’s gonna be weird enough with my passive-aggressive homophobic parents, you know? So, unless you guys are like, broken up, sort it out, okay? For me, please?”

“ _Broken up_?” Louis’ hand halts mid-reaching for the doorknob, “We’re not together, Annie.”

“Oh _god_ ,” Lily moans from the cooker, “You _really_ think no one knows you guys are fucking? Like, _really_?”

“We’re _not_ ,” Louis frowns.

“Louis, please,” Anne reaches for his wrist, “All I’m asking is that you try to sort things out–”

“No, _wait_ ,” Louis turns, puts his messenger bag back on the floor, “First off, I’m not even gonna comment on how you girls automatically assume I’m the one who needs an intervention, without even knowing what we’re arguing about–” he halts Huda’s retort with a hand, “Just, putting that aside for a moment, why would I lie to you about being with Harry?”

“‘Cos you’re flatmates?” Lily shrugs, “You know, just ‘cos me and Liam went to the dogs, we wouldn’t, like, not be supportive of you two.”

Louis starts to shake his head when Huda asks, “Where were you on Valentine’s day?”

Louis blinks, “I–”

“Ever since Harry moved in, you two have been all over each other. Anne and I walked in on Harry semi-naked in your room when we asked you to go to Liverpool,” she continues, “Abby told us about the red pants in your washing this Sunday.”

Louis winces. “He was _joking_.”

“You’re always joined at the hip, _always_ ,” Lily elaborates, “You go to the shops together and you cook together and every weekend you two go out for hours, ’til late, and you never invite any of us. If you’re not going on dates, then lemme just say, _rude_.”

“We know you two haven’t gone to the LGBT society meetings in forever,” Anne adds, “Aya and I went to that _nite-out_ they had the weekend before last, remember? You guys weren’t there, we asked where you’d gone, and they told us you two haven’t been around for a while now. They’re pretty cool though, so we ended up staying anyway.”

“You did?” Louis smiles, a second before he remembers he’s in deep shit, “Right, you know what? I truly don’t have time for this right now, I have a seminar that starts in–” he looks at Liam’s wall clock at the back of the room, “Seven minutes, so we shall continue this little intervention tonight, alright? See you dummies around.”

He flees.

*

“ _Right_ ,” Louis pushes open the door of Harry’s room, startling the other boy where he’s sprawled on his bed, his fingers smudged with marker ink as he holds up one of his case study files. “We have a problem.”

Harry still looks a bit too startled to pull off looking unimpressed, but, bless him, he _tries_. Louis pushes over a few binders at the foot of the bed and sits, his fist closing over Harry’s socked feet when Harry moves them to Louis’ lap. “The girls are onto us.”

Harry blinks. “What?”

“They know we were out together on Valentine’s day, and that society party at G-A-Y we said we were going to, weekend before last? Anne popped up there.”

Harry puts his papers down, lowers his voice, “They know about the money?”

“No, I don’t think so, thank _god_ ,” Louis punctuates it with a squeeze to Harry’s calf, “But they think we’ve been sneaking around on _dates_.”

“Oh,” Harry watches him carefully, “Yeah, the lads think so, too.”

“ _What_?” Louis squeaks, looks towards the door, tries again, softer, “What? Since when?”

“A while, probably?” Harry shrugs, “Last Saturday before we left for Riley’s, after Liam asked you to go to Squirrel’s and you said no, Niall complained to me that you two used to go out with your five-a-side team every Monday after footie, but now we just disappear on my bike all the time. He said we’re _too whipped._ ”

Louis’ ears are hot. “And you _let_ him?”

“What was I supposed to say?” Harry fake-whispers back, “No, Niall, not a date, we’re just going to Chorlton for a bit of _good ole_ _pool hustling_?”

Louis pops the knuckle on Harry’s toe for that. It cracks painfully, and Harry pulls his feet up to hug his knees, “Look, do you have a better idea to explain our outings?”

“Harry, this is gonna go tits up,” Louis warns, legs moving until he can sit down on his calves, face Harry fully, “If they all think we’re dating what happens if we want bring someone back here?”

“I won’t bring anyone,” Harry shrugs, “Are you planning to?”

Louis pushes his chin up, “I might want to.”

“You’ll make me look like an idiot,” Harry frowns, “Like on Saturday.”

“Oh my god, Harry, _not again,_ ” Louis rolls his eyes, sits back on his heels, “That guy was, what, fifty? What do you think was going to happen after the game? Me speeding off in his car and leaving you there?”

“You were flirting with him right in front of my face! How was I supposed to react?”

Louis shrugs, “You could’ve played it like you were into it? Like this was our thing? It worked, didn’t it? It threw him off his game.”

“Yeah, it threw me off of mine, too!” Harry glances at the door, adds in a whisper, “We do this together, or not at all,” he crosses his arms, sits back against his headboard, “ _Together_ , not you deciding you’re going to improvise, and leaving me to figure out what the fuck is your endgame. I’m not supposed to be getting hustled, too.”

“Harry, _Jesus_ , you say it like I did something horrible to you,” Louis sighs, runs his fingers through the edge of Harry’s fluffy comforter, all jumbled up in the middle of the bed with his coursework. “He was onto us. We’re not always going to fool them, you know? We’ve had it good so far ‘cos we don’t _look_ like pool hustlers, but we _are_ going to have to improvise every once in a while. You know this. _But_ –” he interrupts Harry’s attempted protest, “I’m sorry I made you look like the idiot boyfriend, alright? I won’t do that anymore, I promise, no matter how hard we have to improvise. No pretending to flirt with the mark when we’re playing the boyfriend con.”

“You weren’t even pretending,” Harry rolls his eyes, “You were outright flirting.”

“ _Hm_ , and you played the perfect outraged cuckold,” Louis laughs, presses Harry’s knees to the bed before he can get kicked, “I’m kidding, _I’m kidding_. I truly am sorry I upset you.” He squeezes Harry’s knees, “We’re good then? ‘Cos the girls are worried we’re breaking up.”

Harry laughter escapes despite his attempts at seeming stoic.

He considers Louis for a minute, reaches over to pull at a strand of Louis’ soft fringe, “You can’t bring anyone round the flat if everyone thinks we’re dating.”

“I wasn’t going to.” Louis sighs, averts his gaze. “I just– I just say stuff, sometimes. Stuff I don’t really mean.”

The muscles on Harry’s thighs flex under Louis’ fingers, “I know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, massive thank you to my wifey Aberdeen for the beta, you (✿ ♥‿♥) rock my world ໒( ♥ ◡ ♥ )७


	6. Chapter 6

Louis stands by his window, toothbrush moving lazily as he takes in his rather monotonous landscape. Down at the footpath there’s hardly anyone – it’s a Saturday morning, for starters, but it’s also pissing down, has been since Louis woke up. It would make for the perfect lie-in sort of day, when Louis cranks the dial on his bedroom’s radiator as far as it will go and has a lazy wank or maybe five, all the while trying his best to become one with his mattress.

Given a choice, he certainly wouldn’t have picked today of all days to be leaving on a train to Liverpool, ‘cos the sun doesn’t look like it fancies a go at being out and about, either – the sky is gloomy, _Manchester-grey_ , and the trees shake with a wind Louis is _not_ looking forward to braving.

The silver lining is that the tall skinny bloke in the other block, whose window directly faces Louis’, seems to have _finally_ scored last night, and Louis’ long-lived curiosity about the boy’s sexuality is at least somewhat quenched. He’d been getting ready for bed the night before when the light across the footpath drew his attention – theirs blocks are not glued together, _per se_ , but they’re close enough that Louis can make out the posters inside the guy’s bedroom. Tall bloke stumbled in first and then in she came, long-haired and equally tall and skinny, and Louis drew up his eyebrows in a silent toast. At least _one of them_ was about to get some.

There’s a knock at his door.

“Ready?” Harry pokes his head in first, body quickly following, “I’ve made us snacks for the trip with the rest of your jam, is that alright?”

Louis looks away from the window with a minty grin.

"Aren’t you dramatic. It’s only an hour.”

Harry shrugs, points to Louis’ messenger bag in the bed with the rolled-up bundle of clothes in his hand, “Can I?”

“You _may_.”

Harry rolls his eyes as he opens the bag to stuff his change of clothes in alongside Louis’ own. “Turning into a snobby lit student, I’m telling you. Watch it, eh? I’ll dump your arse.”

“Will you?” Louis leaves him briefly to lean in next door just enough to spit out his toothpaste and rinse his brush, “Who’s gonna proofread the mumbo-jumbo you write in your case analyses, then?”

Harry’s got the bag slung over his shoulder when Louis reenters the bedroom, so he gets close, too close, blindly lifting up the flap to stuff his toothbrush in as he holds Harry’s gaze, whispers, “Gonna get yourself another English Lit fake boyfriend, eh, _Hazza_? Have to warn you, I’m the fittest one there. You don’t wanna downgrade, do you?”

“Don’t know if you’re really all that, _Tommo_ ,” Harry parrots, “Haven’t got the _Styles seal of approval_ , have ya?”

“Oh, is that a thing? How very formal.” Louis hums, lets a beat of silence pass between them. “Thing is, though,” he waggles his eyebrows once, “I’m not quite sure there’s anything special about it that would get me in a rush to, you know, get this so called _seal_ of yours.”

“Oh, but _it is_ very special,” Harry’s predatory grin makes the dimple split his cheeks, “You see, my stamp is one of a kind. It produces its very own sealing wax.”

Louis blinks, a crease forming in his brow. The blush, when it comes, is flaming and immediate, and _honestly_ , Louis hates this kid.

“A willy joke? _Really_?” He turns around under the pretence of an eye-roll, bends to slip on his Toms. “You’ve sunk to new lows, Styles.”

“Not if I win,” Harry shrugs, unbothered. He pastes on a slow smile. “And I did, ‘cos you’re blushing.”

“That’s not a blush, it’s full-bodied exasperation,” Louis unplugs his phone from the wall and more or less lobs the charger in Harry’s direction, “‘Cos you’re ridiculous, that’s why.”

*

Oxford Road railway station is a shabby little thing on top of an inclined esplanade, a rather curious happenstance in a city that’s pretty much flat. All of the trains run on the overpass, and Louis has always wondered about its _chicken versus egg_ kind of situation.

“Girls,” he starts as they’ve all just hopped off at the bus stop under the train tracks, “D’you know how old is Oxford Road?”

Abby shoots him a disgruntled look from under her umbrella that Louis has come to learn means _no human interaction before ten_ , but Huda doesn’t disappoint –“It’s quite old, actually. Like, right after the Industrial Revolution? I read a lot about Manchester when I was preparing to move here,” she shrugs, “Killing anxiety with over-preparation, and all that.”

Anne points across the street. “You see that pub right by the rape steps, The Salisbury? There’s one of them red plaques that says it’s like, two hundred years old, or summat.”

Harry frowns, “The _rape steps_?”

“Nothing you’d have to worry about, my little cis male,” Anne pats him on the cheek as she passes, only a brief glance to each side of the road before she’s jaywalking her way to said steps.

*

Louis lets out a pleased sigh as he more or less throws himself in his seat, his dripping umbrella resting between his legs. You’d think that for how much it rains in this city, a downpour wouldn’t generate so much chaos in the train schedule, _and yet_.

Besides him, Harry opens the messenger bag and pulls out two cheese and jam sandwiches wrapped in plastic film.

“Harry, we had breakfast half an hour ago, you cannot be fucking hungry.”

Harry frowns at him before biting into one of the sandwiches, “I like to have a snack during train journeys.”

Louis nods towards his window, “We haven’t even left the station.”

Harry completely ignores him.

“Do you want to go see if there are any empty seats by the girls once we take off, or do you want to stay here?”

Louis bites the inside of his cheek. “Here’s fine.”

“Ok,” Harry pulls his iPod from Louis’ bag, offers it to him, “Wanna do the honours?”

*

“Alright,” Anne says as they’re walking down Hanover Street towards the docks, “Liverpool in a nutshell, who’s ready?”

“Yeah!” Louis exclaims, but it comes out muffled by the scarf he’s buried his chin into. It’s a biting cold early March morning, but at least the rain stayed in Manchester.

“There’s not that much to see, tourist-like,” Anne continues, puffs of condensation leaving her mouth, “It’s basically the Industrial Revolution, the Titanic and the Beatles. Which one you lot fancy first?”

“Titanic?” Harry suggests, just as Huda says, “Beatles, obviously!”

“Oi!” Louis bites down on his smile and skips a bit to catch up to Harry, links their arms together, “I’ll go to the Titanic exhibition with you, love. No way I’m paying twelve quid to get into the Beatles story.”

“Wye aye, man!” Abby laughs, “Thought I was gonna have to drag myself through that thing. Fuck the Beatles!”

“Fuck the Beatles!” Harry echoes.

“It’s not even ten and the group’s splitting already, fuck’s sake,” Lily smiles as she pulls on Abby’s ponytail, “ _Fine_ , just ‘cos they’re right across the docks from each other. But we meet for lunch, sorted?”

“Where are we eating?” Aya asks, possibly the first time he’s heard her voice all morning – Louis hasn’t the faintest idea why, they’ve all been on their best behaviour today.

Or, well– better than usual.

“One of my favourite places here in the city centre,” Anne grins, “You’ll see.”

*

“Out of _all the people_ I thought would lure me into a hipster cafe," Louis tsks, frowning at the _avocado on toast_ on the menu, what the fuck, “I really wasn't expecting it to be you, Anne. I really, _really_ thought it was me and you against the posh kids. Can't say I'm not disappointed.”

"Every place is hipster to you," Harry comments over Anne’s indignant ‘ _I’m not posh!_ ’, leaning over Louis’ shoulder to look at the menu, "If the windows are clean and the seats are not lined in plastic, it's hipster. This is why I don't take you out."

"Baby," Louis smiles beatifically, "If all the places you can think to take me are hipster dens, then you're doing me a favour by not taking me out.”

Abby scoffs.

“‘The fuck you two always disappearing to, then?” She slaps the table as if hit by a sudden idea, the silverware rattling over her cry of victory, “I've _told yous_ they're with that cruising lot that meets in the bushes across Withworth lane, I _did_!

“Nah,” Harry stretches and lays his arm over Louis' shoulders like he's _oh so smooth_ , pulls Louis into his side, "'m not a sharer."

Louis tries to ignore the pinpricks on his palms. He's pretty unsuccessful. "Wait, is that for real, this cruising group? I've never seen."

Harry, Anne and Lily nod.

"That's cos your window faces the pavement," Lily explains, "I see them all the time. It's not just uni lads, too, I've seen loads of grey blokes going in."

Both Harry and Louis make faces.

"God, no, _thanks_. I mean," Louis takes a sip of his orange juice, "Whatever floats their boat and all that, but _no_."

"Speaking of boats,” Aya perks up, "How was the Titanic exhibition?"

Abby goes, " _Ohhhh_ , let me show you the photo of these two being gay on the bow's replica."

She unlocks her phone and proceeds to pass around the boomerang that she sneakily made of them recreating the _I’m flying, Jack!_ scene from the movie.

“Aw, look at you two,” Lily coos at the screen, “You should post that, that’s really cute.”

“Thanks,” Harry grins, leans over to plant a kiss on Louis’ cheek before adding, “Louis has actually called dibs to post it already.”

“I did, didn’t I, baby cakes?” Louis grins right back, patting Harry’s face hard enough to qualify as a mild slap. It’s his fault for talking Louis into this whole charade, anyway.

"I knew that kiss back at Rainbow wasn't no fake kiss," Anne quips, "When you said you were only trynna sell it, Hazza's face went like _this_ –"

And then she proceeds to mime it. Louis wouldn't know how accurate it is – he was doing his very best to avoid Harry's gaze at the occasion.

“Yeah, but we’re all sorted now.” There’s something ominous about Harry’s gaze when he turns to Louis and adds, “ _Aren’t we_ , sweetcheeks?”

*

It’s much later in the afternoon when they finally give their feet another rest. Once inside and underneath the Cavern Pub’s claustrophobically low ceilings, Louis gets where the name of the Beatles’ proverbial _alma mater_ comes from. You can’t light a fag inside, _probably-most-definitely_ , but smoke hangs thick from the vaulted arches anyway like it’s part of the décor, a cover band belting out _It’s been a hard’s day night_ as they do their best to weave their way to an empty table. Harry drops him there with the messenger bag and departs towards the bar, leaving Louis to examine the thousands of scribbles over the brick walls.

He’s quite indifferent to the Beatles, really, but Huda looks ready to pop a boner where she’s seated across from him on the wooden table, and Louis entertains himself with _that_ until Harry comes back with their pints and the bitter taste of tonight’s first choice in beer finally hits the back of Louis’ tongue.

He looks over at Harry in betrayal, “ _Foster_.”

Harry takes a sip of his own beer, lopsided smile as he says, “Can’t get drunk off of four pounds a pint, sorry, love.”

“ _Four pounds,_ ” Louis looks over at Huda as if it’s all personally her fault, “We’re leaving this tourist trap _immediately_.”

Huda _tsks_ her dismissal at him, and continues to enjoy the music.

*

They all leave the pub disappointingly sober and already cutting it close for the girls’ train, Huda announcing her _I had a great time today thanks mates byye_ across the turnstiles as the three girls rush to their carriage.

From then on it’s only Anne, Aya, Harry and him on the twenty minute bus ride to Anne’s house, a terraced little thing in the middle of a backwater red brick row, bonafide heirloom of the city’s industrial past. Louis silently congratulates himself on his _posh-ometer_ ’s unfailing accuracy as he walks the three steps it takes to cross the tiny paved garden, letting out a privately relieved sigh.

He’s even more at ease when he actually meets Anne’s parents – on the days leading up to this weekend, he’s thought vaguely about what they’d be like, but when faced with the reality of them the most fitting descriptor seems to be, well, _old_. Old and harmless. Old because Louis' mum had him at nineteen so he's always unexplainably surprised when someone’s mum and dad look like they ought to be their grandparents, fucking _always_ –

"Hiya, hello," Louis shakes their hands in the crammed sitting room, "Nice to meet you, I'm Louis."

– And _harmless_ because, well, in Louis’ personal experience with homophobes, they do not tend to smile at you and feed you and fawn over you, you know? So, like, it’s possible that Anne was exaggerating their levels of dickwittiness, or that she was just plain _terrified_ of doing it alone – Louis can certainly relate to building up an issue in one’s own mind until it seems insurmountable, he’s self-aware enough to admit _that_. So he shuts the fuck up, looks pretty, and decides to tease Anne about the whole affair only when they’ve gained some distance from it and she doesn’t quite look like she’s three seconds away from running for the hills. Whoever said Louis wasn’t a sensible person, ey?

“So,” Louis licks his lips around a shit-eating grin, much later when they’re out in the equally tiny back garden having a fag, “That was a _disaster dinner_ in there just now, wasn’t it? Just _awful_.”

Being sensible doesn’t mean he can’t tease _a little_.

“Shut up,” Anne bites out as she battles with getting the rickety outdoor heater back to life, “It’s them getting me alone I don’t want. They’re a pair of angels when I’ve got friends round, but once they pull me to the side, I don’t hear the end of it.”

“You know you’re gonna have to talk to them about it at _some_ point, don’t you?” Aya rolls her eyes at the same speed she rolls the tobacco. A multitasker, she is. Louis likes her already.

“I _know_ ,” Anne grunts as she twists the power cord this and that way, “It’s just not gonna be this weekend, okay, let them sit with it for a while– _ha_!” She cries victoriously as the single halogen sputters and flickers to life, an orange beacon of warmth against the wind that sneaks through the back alleyway.

“Whatever you want, love,” Harry lets out on a sigh as he pulls one of the two plastic recliners as close to the heater as he can, then sprawls himself on it, “We support you and all your immature endeavours.”

“Like _your_ coming out story was so mature? _Please_ ,” she drags out the other recliner and scoots back on it, pulls Aya to sit in the vee of her open legs.

Louis actually hasn’t the faintest idea what went down in Harry’s coming out story, as it turns out.

“Will you tone it down with the manspreading,” he turns to Harry, annoyed at himself for being annoyed, “You’ve got a big dick, we get it. Now close your fucking legs so I can sit.”

Harry actually pouts at him like a big petulant baby as he moves his legs so that Louis has space to sit on the recliner that isn’t on top of his crotch, and Louis is too fucking soft for this arsehole because he can’t resist leaning on Harry’s chest anyway. Besides, it’s cold as fuck outside and he could use the extra warmth. It might not seem like it, but all of Louis’ decisions are carefully planned and rationally carried out. Yep.

“Listen,” Anne hands out one of the rollies for Louis and Harry to share, “So this party at my mate’s tonight, it’s a bit–” she exhales, pulls in a long drag before continuing, “It’s a bit _different_ than what we’re used to in uni. If you lads don’t dig it or whatever, you can just come home, ok? It’s only a few houses down.”

“What do you mean, different?” Harry mumbles around the cigarette in his mouth as he fiddles with the lighter.

“Like,” she scratches her eyebrow, “I just mean, there’s no Bobby here, you know? So if you get uncomfortable, I’ll leave the keys to the back door under the lamp, my parents are probably already asleep right now, so it doesn’t matter what time we come in, that’s all.”

“Oh my god,” Louis blinks, then laughs, “You don’t think we can handle your mate’s party, do you, Annie? You think we’re gonna see some fucking blow and throw a hissy, or what?”

Anne laughs around a puff of smoke, “It’s _just_ , you know how we don’t go mental in halls ‘cos we could get our arses reported and then we’d all be well fucked, right? So. The police don’t come knocking on doors around Bootle, is all I’m saying. It gets a bit wild.”

Harry lifts an eyebrow before passing the cigarette down to Louis, “Taking us to a crack house, or summat?”

“Look, _oh my god_ , look– all I’m saying is, if you want to turn in early, here’s the key, is all. Can you two stop being dickey about it?”

Louis smiles around the cigarette he knows will be his to nurse ’til the end – Harry is one of those people that take three drags out of a cigarette and pawns it off to someone else, usually Louis. “So _all you’re saying is_ , we’re about to see _Anne gone wild_ , is that it?”

“You wish,” Anne rolls her eyes, does a little funny-limbed dance to get up without dislodging Aya, “Come help me with the booze, let’s go.”

Inside Anne’s tiny kitchen, he unwraps a whole pack of extra strong Halls, the black ones that bring tears to his eyes, and watches as she bungs half a bottle of cheap vodka and strawberry milk inside the blender cup, tops it off with ice.

“You know,” Anne says in between bouts of ice being crushed, “If you give Harry a blowjob after you’ve had one of these, you’ll change his life forever.”

Louis picks up one of the cough drops and brings it to his nose. It even _smells_ sharp. “Won’t it burn?”

“A little bit, but it adds to the feeling,” Anne smiles, “Never had any complaints.”

Louis is still suspicious as she grabs a handful of the tablets and dumps them inside the blender with their drinks, gives it a last go.

Louis purses his lips, "Classy."

“Innit?” She smiles, opens up the blender cup to inspect the pink frothy monstrosity inside, “I call it _Pink Brick_.”

Halls, vodka, strawberry milk – now that’s a recipe for sicking up in the loo in about three hours if he’s ever seen one.

Of course they’ll still drink it.

*

The house where Anne's best mate Cathy lives is exactly like her own, but mirrored and slightly worse for wear. Louis gets what she meant by different right away – there's someone snorting coke off a coffee table book right in the sitting room, for starters.

That's not to say shit like that doesn't happen in halls, but it's usually behind locked bedroom doors and not in plain view of anyone who happens to walk by and look in from the window.

Harry leans in, “Are those– poppers?”

Louis follow his line of sight to the girl on their left, nods, “C’mon, to the kitchen.”

*

“You’re so pretty,” Cathy tells him, in that earnestly drunk way girls get when they’re sloshed, “Like a doll.”

“Pretty gay, too,” Louis says around the limp cigarette between his lips, “Sorry, love.”

“Oh, I know,” she waves him off, “Annie’s told me all about you and Buff Susan Boyle over there. She’s a shipper.”

Louis follows her gaze to where Harry’s leaning on a wall talking to Aya, squeezer bottle already running low on Pink Brick.

“How does that work, anyways, two bottoms shagging?”

Louis doesn’t take his eyes off of Harry, “Who says I’m a bottom?”

“The fringe and the _Where’s Wally_ shirt, mostly.”

That does pull a laugh out of him, “You think ‘cos your best friend is bi, you can get off saying stuff like that?”

“Well, it _is_ my birthday,” she plucks the cigarette off his lips, “You got the mouth herpes, or what?”

“Probably,” Louis concedes. He’s snogged his fair share on the dance floors of G-A-Y. “Don’t they say, like, eighty percent of people have it, anyways? It just never shows?”

She considers his cigarette for a moment before shrugging and lighting it. “Can’t have any of that shit, if I’m gonna be a care assistant.”

That’s – strangely nice.

“What, like, for disabled people?”

Cathy shakes her curls, “Old folk. I start the apprenticeship next month.”

“Good for you,” Louis nods. They’ve changed topics, like, five times in as many minutes of conversation. She’s giving him whiplash.

“It’s shite,” Cathy shrugs, “But me nan’s had dementia, you know, in her last years, and I liked doing that. Could do it better than the nurse, really – right thicko, she was.”

Louis considers taking the cigarette back for a drag where it’s burning off in her waving hand, but he’s not yet drunk enough to not mind sharing a fag with a stranger. “So you and Anne know each other from school, then?”

“Nah, it’s mostly from playing in the ginnel when we were kids,” she points out the window to where the garden gate opens into the five-foot-wide back lane that connects all the houses in the block, “We haven’t gone to the same school since year six. How d’you think she got the marks to go to uni? Posh one from downtown, it was. Grammar school.”

“Nice that you’re still best friends.”

“She’s my spirit animal,” Cathy smiles, looks around the people congregated in the tiny kitchen, “I’m gonna find her. Nice catching up, _Lewis_!”

“Yeah,” Louis sighs to her retreating back, slumping against the counter.

He feels a bit like he’s just survived an encounter with a wild animal. Could do with a beer.

“Hey,” Harry lights up when Louis sidles up to him, hand sneaking around his waist under the guise of stealing the squeeze bottle, “Y’alright?”

“Peachy, babes.” _Pink Brick_ gets better the more you drink it. It’s definitely less _lozenge-y_ now than at Louis’ first sip, almost an hour ago. “What are you lot talking about?”

“Treat people with kindness,” Aya supplies, “Harry’s evangelising.”

“I’m trademarking it,” Harry informs him very seriously. He’s sweating through his shirt where his back is making contact with Louis’ forearm. Louis tries to wipe at it discreetly while hopping on the kitchen counter so he doesn’t have to be constantly looking up now that the only short person he knows in this fucking party has fucked off.

“What are you gonna do with it?” Louis indulges him, bringing him in closer by the belt loops until Harry’s standing between his legs, both of them still facing Aya. “Did you bring the tin? Want a smoke.”

“Just a whole lot of shirts and bracelets and stuff. It’ll all go to a LGBT charity, the profit.”

Louis decides to be proactive and pat around Harry’s pockets when his second question is ignored.

“That’s quite nice, love.” Sticking his hand in turns out to be a huge mistake, because he can feel the distinctive ring of a condom on Harry’s left back pocket, and he pulls his hand out lighting fast at the same time that Harry goes stiff as a board, Aya still happily giving off design suggestions in front of them.

He leans back, his hands making contact with the sticky countertop that’s probably staining his black skinnies that very second _. Why_ does he have a condom in his back pocket? Is it for Louis? Worse, is it for someone else?

He’s stopped paying attention to the conversation completely. The Nineties’ Britpop playlist that’s been playing on a loop since they arrived starts again, and Louis recognises the opening chords to Girl from Mars.

Surely the condom was already there in his pocket from some other night, and Harry just forgot about it, right. ‘Cos, like, putting everything aside, up until the fact that they’re still as platonic as ITV4’s daytime tv, there’s just _nowhere_ to fuck. The house is tiny. They’re sleeping in an air mattress on the floor of Anne’s bedroom.

And it’s not, like– Harry doesn’t know that it’d be Louis’ first time, but it’d be _theirs_ , and he knows it’s not something men are supposed to fucking care about or whatever, but Harry– Harry cries at _Love, Actually_. Every time. He wouldn’t want their first time to be a quickie in a party loo, or in a ginnel with a bunch of city council wheelie bins, right?

Louis bites his lip, tries to fight the surge of anxiety in his chest. The thought of Harry fucking someone else is even worse, is the thing.

 _Fuck_ , now he really wants that joint.

"You two don't need to leave space for Jesus, you know,” Anne, who has apparently materialised some time during Louis’ internal meltdown, speaks up, “I told you they’re cool.”

Louis wants to tell her that whatever she says about her friends being cool, you don't just walk into a stranger's house openly displaying your gayness. You just don't. But she probably knows that.

Instead he rolls his eyes and makes a show of winding his arms around Harry and pulling him fully into his chest, sweaty back and all. He has to slump down a bit on the counter to rest his chin on Harry’s shoulder.

Harry brings his hands up to covers Louis’ and squeezes them together. Louis hadn’t realised they were shaking.

Harry turns his head until he can lean back and put his mouth right at Louis’ ear, “Y’alright?”

Louis nods once, eyes flitting rapid-fire to every person in his line of sight. They’re behaving very clearly like a couple and the party goes on around them, no one seems to give a fuck. Anne and Aya are back in their bubble, and no one is paying attention to them, either.

“You sure?” Harry asks again, his bottom lip bumping Louis’ earlobe as he speaks.

Louis just– he doesn’t really think it through. He turns his head towards Harry’s and covers that mouth with his own.

Pressed against Harry’s back, Louis can feel him gasp. He wants to use the opportunity to sneak his tongue inside Harry’s mouth, map it out, but his courage has fucked off by then, leaves him caught out and embarrassed, looking away after two seconds as if Harry’s not still in the same spot, looking at him in the queerest little way.

Louis is not very good at understanding what he wants, and he’s even worse at asking for it, but that condom is _not_ getting used on someone else, even if it makes him want to fold in on himself with nerves.

His eyes do another scan of the room and fall on Anne’s, who’s looking at them like she’s two seconds away from whipping out her camera, and some of Louis’ tension dissipates at her stupid grin. He rolls his eyes good-naturedly, flipping her off with the hand still looped around Harry’s shoulder.

“Lou–” Harry starts, and Louis has no fucking answers for him, wishes they had a distraction like an impending pool match to win– but there’s not a single pool table in sight, it’s just them at a party playing a different kind of role.

Except, for his part at least, Louis is not at all sure he’s still pretending.

He buries his face in Harry’s neck, right at his hairline where the baby hairs are a bit damp, and it should be gross except it isn’t. He presses his mouth to it, feeling the salty taste of Harry’s sweat seeping onto his tongue.

He’s getting turned on by sweat, what the _fucking fuck_ is wrong with him.

Harry turns, then, not fully facing Louis but with his torso twisted away while his hand holds Louis’ calf in place for Harry to press his hips into. Louis would be relieved he’s not the only one affected by it if he wasn’t, in fact, about to die.

Harry leans in again and what he mumbles against Louis’ neck is, “This is _actual_ torture.” He bites down on Louis’ earlobe this time, his breath fanning over Louis’ neck and making him erupt in goosebumps.

“Are you amusing yourself, getting me like this when there’s nothing I can do about it?”

Louis is going to fucking regret it but he can’t fucking stop himself from answering, “Isn’t there?”

Harry just. Harry laughs. That’s– a bit mean, actually.

“Excuse you, curly,” Louis leans back on his hands again, and _god_ , that counter is sticky, “That’s not the appropriate answer to a pretty boy making you an offer.”

Harry’s answering grin is a bit too all-knowing for Louis’ liking.

“It is when I know said pretty boy is about to snatch the offer back, as he always does.”

Louis presses his calf more firmly against Harry’s crotch, his foot slotting neatly between Harry’s thighs. Harry’s grin falters. Louis smiles beatifically, “And what if he isn’t?”

*

“Come on,” Harry hisses, standing with his hands on his hips. They don’t know which of the million identical black fences in the ginnel will lead them back to Anne’s garden, “I told you, that’s the one.”

Two doors down, Louis doesn’t budge. “It’s _this one_ , with the broken cobblestone by the hinges. I paid attention earlier.”

All of the fucking cobblestones are in pieces, to be honest. There’s a spot where Louis took a piss a few houses down that’s turned into an actual dirt road. He’s just stalling, trying to calmly and quietly get a hold of his nerves.

It isn’t working.

“Louis, they’re all _the same_.” Harry rolls his eyes, stalks the distance necessary to yank Louis along, which is something Louis has a feeling or two about. “Come on.”

“Oh god,” Louis complains, looking around as Harry worms a hand in through the gate, “We look like home invaders. Someone is looking out the window right now, phoning the police.”

“Good thing Anne said the coppers don’t come round these parts, then.” Harry exhales, finally unlocking the gate and opening it up into– plants. Lots of potted plants.

“Congratulations, Law student,” Louis laughs, even as Harry’s hissing _oh shit_ and yanking the gate back, “You’ve just committed a felony, how does that feel?”

“Shut up,” Harry winds his hands around Louis’ waist, which is indeed quite effective in shutting him up, and walks them back to Louis’ original door of choice, “We didn’t actually get in.”

Louis is the one to unlock the gate this time, and it opens up into the same concrete patio they left from earlier.

“ _Aha_ ,” Louis tiptoes inside, Harry shutting the gate after them with a quiet _click_ , “Where did she say the key was?”

“We’re not going in yet,” Harry says.

“But I’m going to get cold.” Louis protests, but only because it’s kind of part of who he is at this point.

Harry walks over to the outdoor heater that looks a thousand and a half years old and flicks it on just like that, like the universe is conspiring to make this happen. He sits down on one of the plastic recliners, the one closer to the wall, and pats the space between his legs, “C’mere.”

Louis chances a glance into the kitchen window. The whole house is in darkness, and, well, Anne’s mum and dad wouldn’t walk around in the dark, would they? They’re old, for fuck’s sake, old folk break bones from _sitting down too hard_. Louis bites his lip and goes, because he can’t think of a way of escaping without coming across as an arsehole.

Harry’s sad little sigh is a bit bewildering, all things considered.

“Why do you always make that face?” Harry says, quietly, his blunt nails scratching the plastic arm of the chair.

“Make what face? It’s dark as fuck in here,” Louis says, attempting to play dumb, if only to buy himself some time.

“You know what I’m talking about,” Harry leans back against the inclined seat, looking up at the sky.

Louis looks up, too, more through reflex than anything else. There’s, like, two stars. Liverpool pumped too much industrial smoke into the sky for stargazing to be a viable option.

It’s not dark enough that Harry can’t see Louis shaking his head, but he waits for Louis to say out loud, “I don’t.”

Harry sighs again, bites his lip. He looks so endlessly frustrated, that it’s all Louis can do not to spill his guts right fucking then and there, as if it won’t ruin everything.

“I don’t know,” Harry mumbles. He’s trying very hard to hide the whisper of sadness from his voice. “Forget it, let’s go to bed.”

Louis’ stomach feels heavy. It’s possible he’s already ruining everything.

He can’t fucking say it out loud, though. He can’t.

“Kiss me,” he says instead, his heart trying to rabbit its way out of his throat, “Kiss me when no one’s looking. I really want you to.”

Harry only looks at him for the longest time, long enough that Louis starts to think he’s misinterpreted the situation horribly, but then Harry’s leaning forward and cradling Louis’ jaw with both hands, pulling his head in for the softest whisper of a kiss Louis has ever had. It feels like their first, _truly_ this time.

He waits a breath before leaning in for a second one, lips parted this time, gently coaxing Harry’s tongue into his mouth. He tastes like alcohol and mint, like warm breath and _Harry_ , and Louis can’t help the small noise in the back of his throat, eyes squeezed shut as if depriving himself of one sense will make him feel this kiss even _more_. The glide of Harry’s tongue against his, the way they tilt their heads in opposite directions at just the right angle to make everything even _more_ perfect, that’s Louis’ death sentence being signed right fucking then. He knows there’s no coming back from this.

He can’t fucking fathom why he resisted it for so long, even if the mess inside his head is nowhere close to sorted.

They part on an exhale, spit-slick lips shining against the orange glare of the halogen heater. Harry smiles, then, his nostrils moving as he pulls in shallow breaths, and Louis weakly hopes he doesn’t look just as dopey right now, but he can feel his cheeks stretching around a grin he’s powerless to stop.

“Knew you fancied me,” Harry whispers, coaxing a laugh out of Louis.

“Don’t let it get to your head,” Louis warns, faux-haughty, and if he shuffles closer it’s only because the warm cocoon of space heater and boy in front of him is much more inviting than the winter at his back, “Snog me some more, come on.”

Harry pulls him in without hesitation, until Louis is leaning over him, their bodies pressed together. Kissing Harry is addictive and Louis loses himself in it, buries his hands in Harry’s curls and holds on for dear life. They kiss and kiss and kiss, until Louis’ lips are numb and he’s about ready to burst out of his skinnies, Harry’s erection impossible to miss from where it’s pressed against his thigh.

"Wanna fuck you so bad," Harry says against his lips, eyes wide with hope and temptation.

It’s kind of impossible for Harry to miss the whole-body shiver that wracks Louis’ body, but Louis is not the self-proclaimed king of denial for no reason. ”Jesus, Harry, how much have you had to drink?"

Harry just shrugs, shameless, fingers fucking with Louis’ fringe.

Louis rolls his eyes, “Not that much, innit?”

“Just being honest, me.”

“So you think, because you want to,” Louis leans back so he can get a proper look at Harry, "You think that's a good enough reason for me to let you have this arse."

Harry barks out a laugh, definitely too loud for the middle of the night.

“I'm _saying_ , I know you want it too, so you should do us both a favour and stop playing hard to get.“

" _Wow_ ,” Louis declares, facial expressions exaggerated for greater effect, _“_ You've made your case _brilliantly_ , Harry, I'm totally convinced now. Your career in the Law will be–”

"Shut up–"

" _Stellar_ ," Louis continues, undeterred, "Just amazing."

“I know other ways to convince you,” he punctuates the statement with a squeeze to his hips, hands dangerously close to his bum, and Louis’ laughter gets stuck halfway out of his throat when Harry pulls him in for another kiss, the recliner protesting dangerously as their limbs adjust to tangle up into themselves even more.

Louis pulls back, because he has to know, “You’re not _actually_ trying to shag me in Anne’s back garden, are you?”

“No,” Harry smiles, licks his lips, “I mean, that would be really bad, wouldn’t it?”

“Really bad,” Louis agrees, already leaning in for more.

*

The rest of their trip goes by uneventfully. They don’t really get another moment to themselves after the girls open the back gate and find them snogging in the garden; up until they’ve taken the train back to Manchester the next day and they’re back at halls, Anne thanking them as she climbs the stairs to her own room.

Naturally, Louis locks himself in his room under the guise of coursework.

He sits at the edge of his bed, wills his breathing to just _slow the fuck down_. It’s just Harry, for fuck’s sake; clumsy, harmless Harry, who awkwardly nudges spiders out of the window instead of hoovering them up like Louis does.

As much as he bloody wants to, and _fuck_ does he want to, running away is not an option this time.

He eyes the toiletry bag hung on the door of his wardrobe, and squares his shoulders.

*

Harry’s room is dark save for the little white rectangle of light that is his phone screen, casting weak shadows on his face as his thumb scrolls through the screen. He doesn’t immediately notice Louis’ presence, as he is curled up on his side with the duvet up to his chin.

“Lou.” Harry’s surprised voice comes over the sound of his phone being locked, the screen going black. His arm reaches out in silhouette to dump his phone on the chair dragged next to the bed. Louis lets the door slide shut behind him, his hand reaching back to latch the Yale lock.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” Harry answers a tad dumbly, “Done with that essay plan?”

“Yeah,” Louis lies. He didn’t even open his binder. He switches his weight from one foot to the other. “In the mood for a cuddle now, actually.”

The duvet rustles as Harry moves under it. “A cuddle, yeah?”

“Yeah, but Niall and Liam are busy, so.”

Harry’s chuckle is a little forced, a little breathless. The air between them is charged, the distance to the bed seeming to stretch on for miles where Louis is still glued to the door.

“Come here, then,” Harry lifts the corner of the duvet up, “Promise I’ll try to live up to their cuddling skills.”

Louis doesn’t feel quite in charge of his feet as they take him to Harry’s bed. It’s a little like a furnace under Harry’s fifteen tog duvet, so much so that Louis feels like taking off his shirt immediately, but he doesn’t. Instead, he wiggles his way around, helping Harry tuck the duvet around them.

“Hi,” Louis repeats. All of his vocabulary has fucked off along with the courage that brought him here. His hands are trembling where he has them tucked underneath his own chin.

Harry pulls him closer, arm looping across Louis’ waist until he can run his fingers along the small of Louis’ back, just above his footie shorts. Louis tucks his nose in under his jaw, unashamedly breathing in the scent of warm boy.

“Hi yourself,” Harry finally answers, “You cozy?”

Louis hums his assent into Harry’s throat, lips pressing into skin all of their own volition. He can feel Harry shudder against him, shoulder jerking as if his first reaction was to buck Louis off his neck, tracking the controlled way in which he makes himself relax against the pillow. Louis uncurls his hands to fist in his shirt, only for them to meet bare skin.

He pulls back a touch, “Styles, are you _naked_?”

Louis can’t see his shameless grin, but he can hear it in Harry’s voice when he answers, “Only one way to find out.”

“Cheeky,” Louis breathes, eyes shut against the rush of blood to his face.

Harry’s hand tangles in the back of Louis’ head and pulls him into a kiss, his breath hot against Louis’ lips one second and his tongue stroking its way into his mouth the next, slow and measured.

Louis moans into his mouth, feet dragging against the mattress until they can tangle around Harry’s calves. He drags his hand over Harry’s back, slowing feeling the ropey muscle move under his palm. Harry’s back is so _broad_ , and it seems to go on for ages until Louis comes into contact with soft cotton over the curve of his hips.

“Aww,” Louis breaks the kiss in fake disappointment, snapping the elastic band against Harry’s hips, “Talk about filling a boy with false hope.”

Harry laughs, “Well, lucky for you–” his hand loops around the curve of Louis’ waist and squeezes, ”That is _very_ easily fixed.”

Louis can’t help but close the distance between them again, kissing him in earnest. Harry’s hand starts to drag up his chest, bringing his shirt up with it. Louis cries out when Harry flicks his thumb over a nipple, the noise lost between their mouths, Harry reacting by shifting his hips against Louis’, his arousal obvious.

 _This is it_ , he thinks, his hand clenching around Harry’s bicep to hide the tremor in it. He’s going to have sex. He’s going to do it.

Harry bites down into his bottom lip, wrenching another sound out of him. He knees his way in between Louis’ thighs, and Louis doesn’t quite know what to _do_ with his upper leg other than let it stick in the air a bit awkwardly to make space for Harry’s thigh. Pleasure shoots through him when Harry presses against his centre, Louis’ dick rubbing against his thigh, and _Christ_ , that’s–

“Fuck, Lou.” Harry breaks away, his hands bunching up Louis’ shirt and pushing his arms up. It’s a bit of a tangle until they manage to take Louis’ shirt off completely, and then Harry is pulling him in, their bare chests pressing against each other as Harry lays on his back and Louis lies half on top of him.

In the soft shadows of the room, Louis can’t really make out Harry’s expression. Thankfully, it also means Harry can’t see his.

“Didn’t know if you were making me work for it,” Harry starts, his hand skating lower to palm Louis’ bum, “Or if you just didn’t want it.”

Louis doesn’t really trust himself to speak, is the thing. There’s no leftover brainpower for witty repartee when Harry’s middle finger is pushing into the cleft of his cheeks, his intentions so very clear, so Louis just chuckles breathlessly and kisses him again, his hands tangling in Harry’s unruly curls.

Except Harry pulls his hand back only to snake both of them inside Louis’ shorts, his fingers prying Louis’ cheeks apart and Louis just– he can’t–

“Lou?” Harry asks, confused, when Louis jolts back.

“D’you want a blowjob?” Louis blurts out, breathless, his hands clenching against his thighs as he sits back on his haunches.

Harry stays unerringly quiet for a moment, whilst Louis fights against the urge to curl in on himself. His stomach feels like it's dropped to his toes as the seconds painstakingly drag on.

Harry finally clears his throat in the otherwise deadly silent room, voice uncertain as he answers, "Yeah? But Lou–”

“Great,” Louis cuts him off, turning to work on getting the duvet off of them, his movements jerky and uncoordinated as he pushes the heavy fabric away. He’s so nervous that he’s not hard anymore, and it’s making him want to crawl into a hole and die. He’ll probably be the lousiest lay Harry’s ever had.

“Lou,” Harry starts again, “You could fuck me, if you’d– I mean, I just assumed– But I’d be up for, hm, you know. Yeah.”

Louis actually wants to cry. He can’t do something as simple as shagging, and now he’s gone and made Harry think he’s done something wrong. He’s such a fuck up.

“Wanna suck you off first,” Louis hopes he sounds convincing, “Been thinking about it, yeah?”

“Oh,” Harry pauses, his voice a bit strangled, “You thought about blowing me?”

“Yeah,” Louis licks his lips. That part is true, at least– Harry’s been the star of his wanks for fuck knows how long now. He moves his hand to Harry’s thigh, “Can I?”

“Of course, fuck– You can.” Harry shuffles against the sheets a bit, presumably getting more comfortable. He repeats, “You can.”

Louis licks his lips again, covertly pulls in a deep breath. He can do this – he’s given a blowie already, to a right fit bloke in the loo of some club on Canal Street, right after he’d come on his fist. It’ll be his first time doing it sober, but it can’t be that different, can it?

“Right,” Louis nods, and curls his fingers into the waistband of Harry’s pants. He’s barely pulled it down before Harry’s dick is springing out, hard and eager. He ignores it for now, pulls the fabric all the way to Harry’s knees, until he can kick off the rest himself. He curls his hand around Harry’s knee and pulls a bit, until Harry gets the hint and moves his leg to the other side of Louis, shuffles a bit more, and then Louis is kneeling in between Harry’s legs.

He lowers his head and licks from the base up to the head of Harry’s cock, prompting a hissed breath out of him.

“Fuck, Lou.” Harry tangles a hand in Louis’ hair, bringing his knee up and then stretching it out again.

Louis wraps his hand around the base of Harry’s dick and props it up so that he can lower himself again and wrap his mouth around the head, hollowing out his cheeks.

Doing it sober is actually really different. A lot of details from that night that are lost on him stand out now that he’s got Harry in his mouth– he smells like cock, obviously, but different than how Louis smells. He tastes different, too, sharp and aroused where Louis is lapping at him with his tongue. Louis chases the taste into the small hole of his cockhead, makes Harry hiss with the pressure of his tongue.

His hand flexes where it’s wrapped around Harry. He’s thick, thicker than Louis is, and possibly longer, too. He moves his hand up and down a little while lapping at Harry’s head with his tongue, a shiver going through him when Harry goes _hmm_ above him.

Fuck, he’s got Harry’s dick in his mouth. He can’t believe it.

Harry can’t believe it either, apparently, because it’s not long before he’s pulling Louis off and whispering, “Hold on.”

Louis sits back while Harry does some contortionism, his arm reaching out towards his desk, and then the room is softly lit by his desk lamp, Louis’ gaze invariably drawn to Harry’s nakedness. He gives himself a second to reflect on how fucking fit Harry is, and Louis is just, _fuck_ – so fucking gay. Harry’s pretty cock makes his mouth water where it’s resting against Harry’s lower belly, reaching almost to his belly button.

“Like what you see?” Harry’s voice draws his gaze up, to where he’s propped up against the headboard, looking breathless and turned on.

Louis lowers his mouth back onto Harry’s cock, going as far as he dares now, and Harry swears softly.

“Like what _you_ see?” Louis fires back, his lips bumping against the shaft. He punctuates the question with a broad lick, watches in amusement as Harry struggles to keep his eyes open.

“Fuck yeah,” Harry gets out, his hand back on Louis’ hair, “You look so hot, Lou, fuck.”

Louis tries to go down on him again, but Harry’s dick is curved upwards, and he doesn’t get very far. He covers what his mouth can’t reach with his hand, stroking him in turn with the rhythm of his mouth, picking up speed. It’s probably nowhere near as good as all of the other blowies Harry must’ve got, but fuck, Louis is trying. He starts to dribble around Harry’s dick, unable to move and swallow his own saliva at the same time, but Harry doesn’t seem to mind, guiding him with hissed encouragements.

“Lou, ah–” Harry moans, hand tightening on Louis’ hair, “Just– Yeah, like this–”

Louis feels like he’s red to the tip of his toes, his dick straining against his shorts again. He’s running out of breath, but he pushes through it for a bit, Harry's dick so twitchy in his mouth that his orgasm can't be that much longer.

“Lou– _fuck–_ ” Harry gets out, “I’m coming–”

A second later Louis feels Harry’s come filling up his mouth, sharp and bitter, tries his best to swallow around it. He manages for the most part, a drop or two running down his hand to pool at the base of Harry’s dick along with the mess of saliva Louis has made.

He’s made Harry come. He breathes in deeply, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand and sitting up again, his back protesting.

Harry takes in a fortifying breath, murmuring an exhaled ‘ _fuck_ ’ before he’s sitting up, his hand moving to Louis’ hip and prompting him to stand upright on his knees. Harry looks up at him as he shifts his hand to pull Louis’ footie shorts down, the fabric stretching over his dick.

Louis nods, so aroused he could scream with wanting it, and Harry pulls his shorts the rest of the way down, until his dick is springing free. He doesn’t comment on Louis’ lack of pants.

Louis watches as Harry examines him, breath caught in his throat. He’s trying to think of something clever to say through the fog of desire slowing his brain, but he never gets the chance, because Harry chooses that moment to lean down and take Louis' dick into his mouth.

Louis' whole body seizes up as Harry takes him to the hilt, sucking hard from the get go, and _fuck_ , Louis can't help it, can't even fight it no matter how much he wants to, it's just all too fucking hot to take after wanting Harry so much, for so long. His first reflex is to bring his hands to the base of his dick, squeeze it in an effort to stave off his orgasm, except his whole fucking dick is in Harry's mouth and Louis is powerless to stop the current of electricity that makes his balls tighten, every single nerve ending in his body thrumming as he starts to come–

He comes so hard that he can't fucking breathe.

He's still seeing stars when Harry pulls off, sputtering around the unexpected load of come, and shame starts to crawl in at the edges of Louis' pleasure, slow like molasses, until one recedes and the other takes over.

He can’t resist curling in on himself this time, head in his hands as he sits back down, his whole body prickling with embarrassment.

“Sorry,” he croaks out, not daring to look back up at Harry.

“It’s okay,” Harry gets out between one cough and the next, even though they both know it isn’t.

 _Fuck_ , it's like– It's like everything he feared about all of this inevitably becoming true, a self-fulfilling premonition of his incapacity to navigate intimacy like a fucking normal human being, and Louis just– _he can't_ – he's really wanted Harry, wanted _this_ , and he's ruined it. He's fucked up and he doesn't know how to make any of it better.

“I’m gonna go,” Louis whispers, his legs uncurling from beneath him. He can’t look at Harry. He can’t.

“You don’t have to,” Harry says, but Louis does have to, because he’s about five seconds away from crying. “Lou, it’s fine–”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Louis cuts him off, one hand snapping the waistband of his footie shorts back into place. He doesn’t want to fucking cry, _fuck_ , it's just– he's really fucking wanted Harry to fall for him. He's wanted Harry to be impressed by him, and he's wanted Harry to want him, but all he fucking managed is to back out of actual sex with the boy he's in love with like a fucking coward, and to come in three seconds like a fucking twelve year old, and to ruin a good thing that's happened to him like the fucking bellend that he is, like he always does.

Harry reaches one hand out for him and Louis leans away, “Just– please, _fuck_. I’m gonna go. I’m so sorry.”

He leaves, head twisted away to hide the moisture in his lashes, not sparing a second glance at an astonished Harry, left behind on his bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIGHT I'm so sorry this took so long to post. you can blame it on a mixture of me being a whiny baby about writing conflict and adult responsibilities getting in the way. BUT, as I live for conflict resolution, next chapter will hopefully come out much much faster. thanks for sticking with the fic.
> 
> (thanks to amber for babysitting my sorry arse, I don't deserve you wifey)

**Author's Note:**

> Lemonade Stroke ( _slang_ ): An intentionally amateurish shot to disguise one's ability to play.  
> [tumblr](http://leavingonatrain.tumblr.com)  
>   
> [[reblog the fic post]](http://leavingonatrain.tumblr.com/post/177921199255/fic-lemonade-stroke-by-leavingonatrain-pairing)  
> 


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